RELIEVER 



GEORGE 
FREDERICK 

FINGER 




Class _ 

Book- _j 

fapyrijfofN 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE 

GREAT 

RELIEVER 



THE 

GREAT 

RELIEVER 

A FOUR-ACT PLAY 

by 
GEORGE FREDERICK GUNDELFINGER 



KMJ 



THE NEW FRATERNITY 



THE NEW FRATERNITY 

Literature & Music 
Sewicklet Pennsylvania 






THE PLAY PUBLISHED IN THIS VOLUME 
IS COPYRIGHTED AS A DRAMATIC COM- 
POSITION. STAGE AND PLATPORM RIGHTS 
RESERVED. 



<S>CLD H0470 

Copyright 1922 by 
George F. Gundelfinger 



MAR 20 1922 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/greatrelieverfouOOgund 



THE CHARACTERS 
{in order of entrance) 

Miss William s, a student nurse, 
Karl Lindenfels, a composer, 
Constance Wakefield, a trained nurse, 
Marianne Le Grand, "prima donna," 
Harbison Caldwell, a physician, 
An Errand Boy, 
Tony, a violinist, 
Maurice Guilbert, a theatrical manager, 
Herr Schmetterling, an assistant conductor, 
Abigail Strong, a trained nurse, 

A Registration-Day Clerk, 

Mrs. Chandler, an aged invalid, 

Miss Stafford, a trained nurse, 

A Janitor; 

Chorus Girls and Men, Soldiers, 

Invalids, Nurses, etc., etc. 

TIME : June, 1917 
PLACE'. America 



ACT I 



ACT I 

SCENE — A Special Private Room in a Hospital. 

It is the last room on the side of a hall which terminates 
in a sun-parlor. The doorway into the hall is at the ex- 
treme left front of the stage. It is a large doorway — 
large enough to admit a bed. There are a framed set 
of rules on the back of the door. When the door stands 
open (the hinges being on the far side), one gets a 
glimpse into the sun-parlor, which is furnished in wicker. 
On the far side of this door there is an electric bracket- 
lamp. A mahogany chair stands under it. Against the 
wall of the room, on the far side of the chair, stands a 
mahogany dresser; on it are two empty glass vases and 
a small tumbler of antiseptic solution in which there is 
a thermometer. There is a wastebasket between the 
dresser and the chair. The extreme rear of the room 
is in the form of an alcove. Against the wall of this al- 
cove, opposite the dresser, stands a small mahogany 
table. In the rear wall, between the dresser and the 
table, there is a large window through which one can 
see the trees and the houses on the other side of the 
street, the room being on the ground floor. An ordi- 
nary mahogany chair stands before this window. To 
the right of the alcove, parallel to the first window but 
farther front, is a second zvindow not quite so large. 
A folding screen stands before it. In front of the 
screen stands a low white iron cot, dressed with fresh 
linens. Against the wall, between the cot and the screen, 
there is a small white iron table, a glass and a tray on 
the upper shelf, a reading-lamp and a call-bell with 
connecting wires on the lower. Just around the cor- 
ner of the wall, to the right of the cot, stands a small 
white cabinet, on the top of which are a washbowl and a 
pitcher. To the right of this cabinet there is a small 



12 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

door giving access to a clothes-closet. At right angles 
to this door, on the extreme right front of the stage, is 
another door to a bathroom. A mahogany Morris chair 
with green plush cushions stands at the front center of 
the stage. The walls and ceiling are painted grey. The 
doors are plain mahogany ; the door frames and the 
window frames, white. Buff curtains hang at the win- 
dows. The window shades are not drawn. The floor 
is buff tile, with inconspicuous oriental rugs placed here 
and there. 

It is a very dismal rainy day, and there are occasional 
peals of thunder and faint flashes of lightning. 

Miss Williams, a very plump student-nurse in a blue ging- 
ham dress, white shoulder-apron, white cap and black 
shoes, enters from the hall, carrying linens, small cloths 
and a pitcher of ice water. After resting the pitcher and 
small cloths on the white iron table, she places covers 
on the dresser and on the table in the alcove. Then 
she covers the green cushions of the Morris chair with 
fresh slips of flowered creton. 

A rolling noise is heard in the hall. Miss Williams opens 
the door wide to guide a white iron bed which is being 
shoved into the room headforemost. Karl Lindenfels, 
still under the influence of ether, lies in the bed on the 
flat of his back. His blonde hair is plainly visible on 
the pillow; there is a greenish cast to his thin face. He 
still wears the long white shirt from the operating-room 
and is covered with a sheet from the chest down. A 
chart for recording pulse, temperature, etc. lies on the 
foot of the bed. Constance Wakefield, a trained nurse 
in the usual immaculately white uniform, white cap and 
white shoes, is pushing the bed from the foot. With 
Miss William's assistance, she rolls the bed across the 
floor to its position directly above the cot, the bed being 
the usual high kind found in hospitals. Miss Williams 
then leaves the room. 

Constance Wakefield is about thirty years of age. She is 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 13 

of average height, not heavy, yet well-preserved and 
unseemingly strong. Her natural poise and quiet man- 
ner indicate that she has had considerable experience in 
her profession. Her brown hair, neatly and becomingly 
arranged, accentuates, by contrast, the slight pallor of 
her face — not the pallor due to anxiety but to self-sacri- 
fice and lack of sleep. Her features are well defined; 
her lips are thin and unobtrusively colored; there is a 
faint tinge of pink on her cheeks; her expressive blue 
eyes have a soft, steady, peaceful gaze. Her hands 
seem capable of transmitting healing power. 
Constance carries the chart to the dresser, takes the ther- 
mometer from the antiseptic solution, and opens the 
dresser drawer to obtain a counterpane. Standing on 
the far side of the bed, she arranges her patient's head 
more comfortably on his pillow, places the thermometer 
under his tongue, smooths out the sheet and spreads the 
counterpane over it, carefully lifting his arms from 
under the cover. She takes the lamp and the call-bell 
from the shelf under the table and fastens them to the 
head of the bed. In the meanwhile, Miss Williams has 
returned with a pair of low men's shoes in her hand and 
with a blue serge suit and other garments on her arm. 
She places them on the Morris chair and leaves the 
room again. Constance takes her patient's pulse using 
the watch on her wrist; she then removes the ther- 
mometer from his mouth and places it in the glass on 
the dresser, where she records her observations on the 
chart. 

Marianne Le Grand enters dramatically from the hall. 
She is fully a head taller than the nurse — a woman 
with a slender serpentine form, jet black hair, an acqui- 
line nose, dancing sensual eyes and twitching rouged 
lips. The forced animation of her face helps to dis- 
guise its youthlessness. She wears a smart raincoat, a 
black hat and gown, boots with extremely high heels, 
and carries a handbag and an umbrella. 



14 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

MARIANNE — (leaning her dripping umbrella against 
the door frame and rushing to the bedside) Oh ! Mon cher 
Karl ! Mon petit genie ! (She places her handkerchief to 
her eyes and turns to meet Constance who is coming for- 
ward.) Is he out of zee danger, nurse? 

CONSTANCE— The doctors said it was high time for 
the operation. According to the chart, the appendix was 
much inflamed and distended with considerable pus. Sooner 
or later it would have burst. 

MARIANNE— And zen? 

CONSTANCE— Peritonitis, which is often fatal. 

MARIANNE — (clasping her hands tragically, her brace- 
lets jingling) Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! How fortunate zat 
I find him in time ! He was all stretch out on zee floor in 
his studio, Mademoiselle. 

CONSTANCE — But he must have had other attacks 
before this? 

MARIANNE — Yes; but zey were not serious — zat is he 
would not take zem seriously. He take nozing seriously; he 
do everyzing wizout effort — everyzing. His composing, his 
musique — zey come so naturelle wiz him. Un petit genie ! 
You have surely heard of him, Mademoiselle — Mademoi- 
selle — I forget zee name? 

CONSTANCE— Wakefield. 

MARIANNE — You have surely heard of him, Made- 
moiselle Wakefield. He is zee talk of zee town. 

CONSTANCE — I am sorry to say I have never heard of 
Mr. Lindenfels before. You see we nurses are pretty much 
shut off from the world. I seldom go to the music halls or 
to the theatre. 

MARIANNE — Ah, you are like nuns in zee convent — 
n'est-ce pas ? — always wiz invalids and zee grey walls. ( She 
glances about the room, rolling her large eyes.) Ugh! zee 
grey walls — nozing but zee grey walls. (She walks to the 
large window.) Ugh! and zee grey day, too. Rain — rain 
continuelle ! But I am glad Monsieur Lindenfels has a room 
on zee first floor, where he can see zee street and zee peoples. 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 15 

CONSTANCE — (lifting the trousers from the Morris 
chair) The rooms higher up are far more quiet. 

MARIANNE — (coming forward) Monsieur Lindenfels 
must not have zee quiet. Non ! (She removes her raincoat, 
placing it on the chair near the door.) 

CONSTANCE — Most patients prefer the quiet ; they need 
it, too. 

MARIANNE — Mais Monsieur Lindenfels — il n'est pas 
ordinaire; il est un petit genie. You not speak French; I 
forget. Monsieur Lindenfels need zee couleur and zee mo- 
tion for inspiration. 

CONSTANCE — (catching a watch which has fallen from 
the trousers) His watch ! I almost dropped it on the floor. 

MARIANNE — (taking the watch from her) Ah, he would 
have been tres sad if you had broken it. Zee watch is a 
present from me, Mademoiselle Wakefield. (She opens the 
watch.) See ! he wear my picture in zee front. Ah, it is 
already half past ten. When did zee operation take place? 

CONSTANCE — (walking to the dresser with the trou- 
sers) The exact hour is on the chart. (She takes up the 
chart.) You see I write everything about my patient on 
this chart. The operation was at 9.20. 

MARIANNE — Zen he has been in zee anezetic for over 
an hour? (She walks to the bedside.) How long before he 
will wake? 

CON STANCE — (returning the chart to the dresser and 
folding the trousers) Shortly, I presume. 

MARIANNE — Why do he look so green — so cadavereux? 

CONSTANCE — Some persons look that way under such 
conditions. 

MARIANNE — And so gloomy a day! Zat make him 
look worse. (Constance crosses on the way to the clothes- 
closet.) Ah, take good care of zee trousers. He is so par- 
ticular about zee creases. Will he need more clothes? 

CONSTANCE — (opening the closet door) It will be at 
least a week before he is permitted to get out of bed. Until 
then he will need only pajamas. (She places the trousers 



16 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

on the shelf in the closet and comes forward with a coat- 
hanger.) 

MARIANNE — Ah, he wear such beautiful pajamas. 
When he see a pair he like in zee shop-window, he must 
have zem — just like an infant. He like zee bright couleur 
and zee silk stripes — anyzing gay and joli like his musique. 
(Constance places his coat on the hanger and carries it to 
the closet. Marianne lifts the remaining garments from the 
Morris chair and then sits in it.) Ah, son petite chemise ! 
(She holds up his undershirt. Constance takes it.) And zee 
little calegon ! (She holds up a pair of knee drawers.) So 
soft and so silky ! (She presses the drawers tenderly against 
her cheek and then hands them to the nurse.) And zee chau- 
sette de soie ! (She holds up a pair of socks.) Ah, if he had 
known he was go on a trip to zee hospital, he would have 
wear all zee baby-blue zings from Paris. (She hands the 
remaining garments, shirt, tie, collar, etc. to Constance who 
carries them to the dresser and places them in a drawer.}. 
But zee ambulance come so quick — oh, ce fut terrible. (She 
squirms about in the chair.) Zis chair is so uncomfortable, 
Mademoiselle. 

CONSTANCE — I shall bring this one. (She carries for- 
ward the chair from the alcove.) 

MARIANNE — (reaching under her and producing his 
shoes) It is because I have been sitting on Monsieur Linden- 
fels's shoes. Oh, such fine expensive shoes ! (She pats them.) 

CONSTANCE — Everything is expensive now, on ac- 
count of the war. (She takes the shoes.) 

MARIANNE— Oh! Zee horrible war! You know, 
Mademoiselle, I am glad after all zat zey had to take his 
appendix out. Even if it had not been necessaire immedi- 
ately, I would have persuade Monsieur Lindenfels to under- 
go zee operation anyhow so he would be in zee hospital on 
zee Registration Day. 

CONSTANCE — (placing the shoes on the shelf in the 
closet) Would he have been eligible? 

MARIANNE — He is twenty-seven. (Constance walks to 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 17 

the dresser drawer for her knitting.) When zey draft zee 
young Americans for France, he would not be exempt. 
Zey would say a musician can do no good at home, and a 
German one would only serve as a spy. Non, we make him 
fight, and let ze German bullet which would kill American 
boy kill him. (Constance comes forward and sits on the 
chair beside Marianne.) Ah! Mon Dieu ! To zink of mon 
cher Karl lying out in Europe wiz a wound in his side, zee 
red blood running, running, running until he turn green in 
zee face. Ugh ! Ugh ! Mon Dieu ! Zere are so many worzless 
lazy men, Mademoiselle, who would be glad to sacrifice zeir 
lives on zee battlefield ; but to draft zee boys like mon 
cher Karl who has zee great genius and zee great future — 
ah ! it is outrageous, outrageous ! 

CONSTANCE— (knitting) I do not believe that all men 
who volunteer are lazy and worthless. While they may not 
be geniuses, they feel their duty to their country as strongly 
as the genius feels the creative instinct. There are many 
things just as important as art. 

MARIANNE — Ah, Mademoiselle — she know how to 
knit. 

CONSTANCE— Just a pair of socks. 

MARIANNE— Socks ! Suck zick wooly socks ! If Mon- 
sieur Lindenfels had to wear such socks, he could not com- 
pose anozer note. 

CONSTANCE— Silk socks would not last long if a sol- 
dier had to march in them all day. 

MARIANNE — Ah, zey are socks for zee soldiers. 
Mademoiselle is patriotic — eh! 

CO'N STANCE — In my spare moments I do all I can for 
the relief and comfort of the men who are fighting at the 
front. 

MARIANNE — Yes; it is nice to serve zee country by 
knitting, if one cannot serve it by doing greater zings. To 
fight wiz zee sword and knit wiz zee needle — zey are such 
ordinaire zings to do. Zee artists are so much superieure to 
zee soldiers and zee mozers. Ah, Mademoiselle, zee only 



18 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

great zing zee mozer can do is to give birth to zee great 
artist, and zee only great zing zee soldier can fight for and 
save is zee work of zee great artist. Monsieur Lindenfels — 
he leave home, parents, everyzing for his art. He wander 
about zee streets trying to find publisher for his manuscript ; 
but zee publisher accept nozing by an unknown artist. Zee 
artist must first become known, Mademoiselle ; it was I who 
find Monsieur Lindenfels. I saw in him zee great possi- 
bilities. I persuade him write zee kind of music zee public 
want. I make him populaire. I buy him respectable clothes. 
I rent him zee little studio and furnish it wiz whatever he 
want. Zee great artist must have comfort and leisure. 

CONSTANCE — But many of the great composers have 
triumphed in spite of poverty and pain. 

MARIANNE — Ah, but it is so absurd to zink such zings 
are necessaire — to zink zat a masterpiece cannot be pro- 
duced wizout suffering. If zat were so, Mademoiselle, zee 
hospital ought to produce many geniuses. But who ever 
heard of zee great work of art coming out of zee hospital. 
(She laughs aloud.) Zee hospitals are so scientific ; every- 
zing must be measured and timed so accurately ; zere is no 
abandon ; everyzing is under restraint ; everywhere in zee 
halls one sees Silence, Silence, Silence. (She points to 
various places on the zuall of the room where she imagines 
she sees the signs.) Zere is no freedom ; zee liberty which 
every artist need is lacking. It is zat what worry me, 
Mademoiselle ; even if Monsieur Lindenfels is out of physi- 
cal danger, zee ezer and zis environnement may affect his 
mind — zee memory of what he has been doing; I mean his 
composing. Zee artist is not ordinaire ; non. Zat which is 
a trifling experience to zee common man may be desastreux 
to zee genius. Comprenez-vous, Mademoiselle? Je suis 
superstitieuse. It is such a bad day for zee operation. 
(There is thunder.) 

CONSTANCE — When the sun shines this is a most 
cheerful room. 

MARIANNE — (rising and walking to the large window) 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 19 

When zee sun shine? It look as zough zee dear sun will 
never shine again. (She returns from the window.) Ugh, 
zee grey walls — zey cold grey walls ! To gaze at zem morn- 
ing, noon and night ! It must be maddening. 

CONSTANCE— They are very restful. 

MARIANNE — (emphatically) But I have told you Mon- 
sieur Lindenfels must not see zee restful zings. I have 
adorned zee walls of zee studio wiz bright pictures — wiz 
pictures of zee dancing women — so. (She whirls about, 
waving her arms, her bracelets jingling.) Zee bare dancing 
women — ah, zat is art. But zee bare grey walls and zee 
Silence, Silence, Silence — zat ruin art; zat make zee mine! 
blank. 

CONSTANCE — A rest from his work may do him good. 

MARIANNE — (dropping into the Morris chair again 
hopelessly, and then suddenly continuing her lecture) Ah, 
Mademoiselle, vous ne comprenez pas. Zee artist is not 
ordinaire. He need excitement. He need a different kind 
of nurse to keep him wake. Monsieur Lindenfels — he not 
sleep much, non, jamais. Try to keep him awake, Made- 
moiselle, but keep zee door closed so he will not hear zee 
ozer patients moaning and groaning. (She pronounces these 
words descriptively.) But keep zee windows open so he 
can hear zee laughing girls on zee street and zee motor cars, 
and keep zee window shades up so he can see zee sky — if 
it ever turn blue again, instead of grey. He must see some- 
zing more zan zee grey walls, and he must hear somezing 
more zan Silence, Silence, Silence. I will send him flowers 
for inspiration, and Mademoiselle will put zem on zee table, 
on zee chiffonier, on zee windows, everywhere. He must see 
zee bright flowers when he wake. (She rises and walks to 
the bed.) Ah, if only he would soon wake, open his eyes 
and move his arms like when he conduct orchestre ! (She 
imitates him, waving her arms, her bracelets jingling.) 
I suppose it is time for zee rehearsal. (She looks at the 
watch in her hand.) Onze heures moins un quart. I must 
be at zee theatre at eleven. We are rehearsing Monsieur 



20 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

Lindenfels's new opera which is to produce next fall. It is 
called "Zee Great Reliever," Mademoiselle. Ah, it is mag- 
nifique, but it is not yet finished. (She gazes at the bed, 
shaking her head.) Non, il n'est pas encore fini. Oh ! Je 
craindre ; je craindre. Ah, if only I could stay until he 
wake, and stay to keep him wake — but I must go. (She 
crosses to the dresser and puts on her raincoat.) I will come 
often, Mademoiselle, but I must go now. (Constance rises 
to take her hand, leaving her knitting on the chair.) I will 
stop at zee fleuriste and order zee flowers ; I will stop zere 
on zee way to zee theatre. (She walks to the window again.) 
Ah, zere is Henri wiz zee limousine ! (She comes forward 
again nervously.) Remember, Mademoiselle Wakefield ; see 
zat Monsieur get everyzing he desire. Here is my card ; 
have everyzing charged to me — to Marianne Le Grand. I 
will send his pajamas zis afternoon. Oh, if he had only 
come out of zee ezer before I leave. He is still green — 
look so cadavereux like zee dead soldier wiz a wound in 
zee side — looks like he has forget his opera — and me. Je 
craindre; je craindre. Here, Mademoiselle, give him zee 
watch as soon as he wake and show him my picture. (She 
hands her the watch.) Comprenez-vous ? 

CONSTANCE— Yes, I will. 

MARIANNE — Zank you— and Mademoiselle, could he 
have private telephone? 

CONSTANCE — Yes, he may have one at his bedside. 

MARIANNE — Have it put zere at once, so I can call 
him up when I get to zee theatre. What will zee nombre 
be? 

CONSTANCE— Pavillion Bl, Room 13. 

MARIANNE — (jotting it down in the notebook she has 
taken from her handbag) Pavillion Bl, chambre le treizieme 
— oh, what an unlucky nombre ! Je craindre ; je craindre. 
(She walks to the door, taking up her umbrella.) Au re- 
voir, Mademoiselle. Keep Monsieur in zee best of spirits. 

(Marianne leaves. Constance opens the watch, examines 
the picture critically, shakes her head, then places the 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 21 

watch under her patient's pillow. An open umbrella is 
seen bobbing up and down at the window.) 

MARIANNE— (outside) Mademoiselle Wakefield! 

CONSTANCE — (walking to the window) Yes, Miss Le- 
Grand. 

MARIANNE— Is he wake? 

CONSTANCE— Not yet. 

MARIANNE — If he wake before I phone, zen you phone 
to me. My nombre is on zee card. 

CONSTANCE— Very well. 

(There are three loud honks of an automobile horn, fol- 
lowed by a peaceful silence. Constance again takes the 
thermometer from the solution and places it under the 
patient's tongue. She carries the chair back to its 
former position in the alcove and places her knitting on 
the window sill. Then she removes the thermometer 
and is recording the temperature on the chart just as 
Harbison Caldwell enters the room. 

Caldwell is a young physician about thirty-five years old, 
wearing the usual white linen suit of an interne. There 
is a rosebud on the lapel of his coat, which is unbut- 
toned disclosing a blue-and-white-striped shirt. He is 
a man of average height with virile physique, square 
broad shoulders, high chest, round well-proportioned 
thighs, luxuriant but not coarse hair trimmed thin 
about his finely shaped ears and his spotless neck, which, 
together with a low, loose collar and short coat sleeves, 
gives him a cool, clean, comfortable appearance. His 
face is smpoth, complexion ruddy, eyes clear, nose 
prominent, teeth glistening between substantial lips. 
His hands are plump but firm; his nails, zvell-de fined 
and immaculate. His light, buoyant step is rendered 
noiseless by the rubber heels on his white shoes. 

He walks to the far side of the bed to feel the patient's 
pulse.) 

CONSTANCE— (approaching the foot of the bed) His 
temperature is 101, Doctor. 



22 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

CALDWELL — (facing the nurse but still holding the 
patient's hand.) When he comes out of the anesthetic, I 
think you will find him quite delirious and probably diffi- 
cult to manage. Lindenfels is a young composer — artistic 
temperament, excitable, no self-control. I doubt if you 
have ever nursed a similar case. If you need help, don't 
feel reluctant about summoning me. 

CONSTANCE— Thank you, Doctor; but I think I shall 
be able to handle him. 

CALDWELL — Lindenfels, above all other patients, must 
be kept very quiet. He is in poor condition physically — too 
much wine and liquor, too many cigarettes, extreme sexual 
dissipation. He has a very low resistance. He must re- 
main in bed at least two weeks. His flesh isn't the healthy 
kind that heals readily. 

CONSTANCE— No venereal disease? 

CALDWELL— Yes. 

CONSTANCE— I should be careful then? 

CALDWELL — Always, Constance; always. (There is 
a noticeable silence during which she feels azvare of the 
fact that he is gazincf { at her, although she herself is looking 
at the patient. She starts to walk away from the bed.) You 
look tired. 

CONSTANCE — (stopping but not turning about) My 
last case was a severe one. 

CALDWELL— Not enough sleep? 

CONSTANCE— Very little, Doctor. (She walks to the 
dresser and pretends to be occupied reading the chart.) 

CALDWELL — (following her) If Lindenfels is too 
hard on you, we shall try to find another nurse for night- 
turn, but the war has made nurses mighty scarce. You 
need a rest. (He stands near to her with one elbow on the 
dresser and one knee on the chair.) You need not only a 
good night's rest but several week's rest, (earnestly) You 
need a change, Constance — a big change — a trip somewhere. 

CON STANCE — I have been contemplating a visit home 
— that is, to as much as there is left of my home. My mother 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 23 

is dead, and both of my brothers have enlisted. 

CALDWELL — I suppose you are proud of them. 

CONSTANCE — Could I feel otherwise when my coun- 
try stands in such urgent need of defenders — when there is 
no telling at what moment a bomb may drop out of a 
clear sky on my dear old daddy's head. The defense of our 
country and of our little cottage, just a mile or two out of 
London, may cost my brothers their lives. They are two 
such good, clean boys, Doctor. I don't know that either one 
of them could ever set the world on fire with his accom- 
plishments, but I do not like to think of their firm healthy 
bodies bleeding out there under a starless sky without the 
aid of a physician. (She walks to the window, takes up her 
knitting from the sill, but continues to gaze out into the 
gloomy street.) 

CALDWELL — You are referring to the scarcity of phy- 
sicians in England — to the report that so many doctors have 
lost their lives at the front. 

CONSTANCE— Yes ; that is why she is calling to the 
young physicians of America to come to the aid of her 
wounded. 

CALDWELL — I noticed that call in the paper a few 
days ago. 

CONSTANCE — Have you given it any thought, Doctor? 

CALDWELL — Yes. (a very noticeable pause) I had 
decided not to enlist. 

(There are soft rolls of thunder like the roaring of dis- 
tant cannon; the rainfall increases. Neither one of 
them speak for some time. Constance walks to the 
Morris chair, sits down and begins to knit, gazing sadly 
at her needles. His eyes have followed her, but he has 
not changed his position.) 

CONSTANCE— Won't you enlist to relieve the Ameri- 
can soldiers either, when they go to France, Doctor? 

(He walks to the foot of the bed, leans with his back 
against it, folds his arms and faces her.) 

CALDWELL — I suppose you will think me neither a 



24 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

patriot nor a Christian, but I should like to say a few words 
before you judge me. In these days few persons have the 
courage to speak out in public the things that are on their 
minds, because our Government prohibits it. But here in 
the seclusion of this room, there is surely nothing to pro- 
hibit my views from passing between us. Generally speak- 
ing, I cannot see why the United States has entered the 
war. Many seemingly good reasons have been given I 
know, but they have all frothed out of a rather hollow inci- 
dent like toadstools on the trunk of a decayed tree. That 
incident was the sinking of a ship on which American citi- 
zens were warned not to travel. Now, if this is a war 
for humanity as we are told (the German people being in- 
cluded under that head, as we are likewise told), then I 
ask which does more for humanity : the ammunition which 
would shatter the lives of thousands of German fathers 
and brothers and sons, or the torpedo which sends that am- 
munition, together with a shipful of death-courting people, 
to the bottom of the sea? Humanity is humanity, irre- 
spective of nationality, and since we are striving for de- 
mocracy, number naturally comes before wealth. But we 
Americans — we who are supposed to be so intensely human 
and so reasonable a race — we seek to avenge a murder, 
incidental on the part of the murderer and voluntary on the 
part of the murdered, by sending half a million of our best 
young men to France to meet perhaps a similar fate. If 
Germany had invaded us as she had invaded England, then 
I should say it were necessary not only for half a million 
but for all of us to defend our country ; but the cold fact is 
that Germany has not fired a single shot toward our shores 
and has not molested us elsewhere except in doing what 
she could not avoid doing in order to destroy not our people 
but the shells which our people had made to destroy her 
people — that is, in order to defend herself. Yet we peace- 
loving Americans, since out country is not in need of defense, 
must embark for French soil to fight for and defend some- 
thing; so we have selected the interests of our munition 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 25 

plants and called it our honor. If Germany has attacked 
England without cause, then surely, we are attacking Ger- 
many likewise. The crafty intellect may invent a score of 
bombastic reasons to justify our entry into the conflict, but 
the human heart sends one and only one message through- 
out the whole constitution, and that is that those of the 
half million American boys who are going to be wounded 
or killed are going to be needlessly mangled or murdered. 
To all physicians the human body, despite its imperfections, 
its limitations and its ultimate degeneration, is wonderful. 
To me, in particular, it has always appeared so much so as 
to win not only my utmost respect but even my undivided 
reverence. Each time I see this masterpiece of flesh about 
to be marred by the surgeon's knife, I suffer something more 
terrible than the pangs of the patient, and it is only the 
thought that the latter is going to be relieved that prevents 
me from knocking the knife from the surgeon's hand. I 
learned my profession, Constance, that I might help preserve 
these bodies from premature death and that I might bring 
aid and relief to those unfortunate beings whose wounds, 
fractures and diseases seem unavoidable. But I tell you 
plainly that I did not become a physician merely to follow 
in the path of bloody butchers and barbarians, irrespective 
of their nationality, to repair, in a reckless and wholesale 
way, scores of formerly perfect human bodies which have 
been needlessly exposed to disease and torn by bayonets 
and poison shells. Now you will understand why I have de- 
cided not to go across with the American soldiers. 

CONSTANCE — If you do not care to take relief to the 
soldiers of your own country, it is easy to understand why 
you had decided not to take it to the soldiers of England. 

CALDWELL — You have missed the point of my argu- 
ment. I would rather take relief to the English soldiers than 
to the American, because the English soldiers are fighting in 
self-defense ; their wounds are not being unnecessarily in- 
flicted. I tried to make it clear that I consider it my duty 
and that it is my desire to relieve all suffering unavoidable 



26 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

on the part of the sufferer. 

CONSTANCE — Then why had you decided not to answer 
the call of England for American physicians? Surely there 
is more unavoidable suffering among the English soldiers 
than there is here at this hospital. 

CALDWELL — There is another reason which, though it 
does not concern only myself, does not, on the other hand, 
obtain in the case of all physicians. The open discussion of 
it seems also to be more or less prohibited, but surely not 
between two of our profession. The appeal from England 
shows that the physician at the front runs almost as great 
a risk of losing his life as the soldier. It is not that I am 
afraid to die, Constance, but that I am not ready to die. The 
plain truth is that I have not yet lived — not as I wish to 
live, whereas most of these soldiers have. But they have not 
lived as I would live, possibly because they do not know what 
I know, probably because they do not care. They have had 
no respect for their bodies. The fact that they have, with- 
out thought or without reluctance, exposed and subjected 
themselves to venereal disease explains why so many of them 
are willing and even anxious to sacrifice their bodies on the 
battlefield. This most marvelous function of the flesh is not 
a thing that I look back upon as dirty, beast-like and ruinous, 
but a thing which I look forward to as clean, manly and 
productive. I look forward to it as the sweetest and greatest 
thing in life, not only because it affords intense yet momen- 
tary pleasure, but because of the lasting happiness afforded 
by its significance and its sequence. I have denied myself 
this pleasure and happiness because I have been waiting to 
come by it purely and righteously. To my mind, the greater 
service is performed not by dying and by killing but by 
living and by bringing others to life and by keeping them 
alive and well. That is the main purpose of my profession, 
Constance. It is a beautiful and altruistic work ; and yet I 
feel that I who am constantly bringing relief and gladness 
to others should not fail to bring some of it to myself. No 
other person on this earth has so happily relieved and come 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 27 

so near to realizing the only essential pains of a pure mar- 
riage, without experiencing any of its pleasures and its joys, 
as myself. Every time I have labored over somebody's loved 
one helping with the delivery of her babe, I have felt the 
longing to become a husband and a father. There must be 
no greater joy in life than that of seeing the product of the 
loving union of one's own clean flesh with the clean flesh 
of another. 

CONSTANCE — (dropping her knitting for the first time 
and gazing off in another direction) It is also a great joy 
for me, Doctor, to see these babies smile up into my eyes 
when I hold them in my arms. 

CALDWELL — (coming forzvard and taking her hand 
tenderly in his) And think how much sweeter and greater 
the joy if the babe were your own ! 

CONSTANCE — (with hidden emotion) Sweeter perhaps, 
but selfish ; for in that case I would feel I were giving my 
attention to a part of myself. (She rises, her knitting falling 
to the floor.) But I must not think of myself ; not now — 
now when my brothers are over there, when, like my patient 
here on the bed, their bodies may be cut or torn apart, but 
when, unlike my patient, they have no physician to sew and 
bind their wounds. (Caldwell drops her hand and walks 
sadly to the bedside where he stands with bowed head watch- 
ing the face on the pillow.) You have helped to save his 
life, Doctor; if he had a sister, think how much she would 
love you for having done it ! 

CALDWELL — (slowly, his back still turned) Think how 
much his sister would love me for having brought relief to 
her brother? 

CONSTANCE — Of course, Mr. Lindenfels has not been 
wounded in battle. 

CALDWELL — (slowly turning his face toward her) As 
your brothers may be . . . 

CONSTANCE— Do not think I value the soldier's life 
above all others ; there are men in all walks of life who are 
fighting for great ends, but the soldier's life, when his cause 



28 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

is worthy, is surely just as precious as theirs. To me all 
lives are sacred, and all killing is sin. I believe one can fight 
nobly without bloodshed. I would that all the munitions in 
the world were forever sent to the ocean's bottom. I know 
it is wrong that my country has been drawn into so bloody 
a whirlpool; everybody knows it. I agree with you in 
saying it is wrong that your country has been likewise en- 
snared. But whether it is right or wrong, even though God 
Himself resents and abhors it, it is here and will be here for 
some time ; and there will be untold suffering which, though 
it seems beyond prevention, may be in great part relieved. 
It is not only to my brothers that I would send relief, but to 
the brothers of all — to all the brothers of England, of France, 
of America ; to all the brothers of Germany as well. We 
must send relief ; if the American physicians do not respond, 
then I, for one, shall go in their stead. I shall become A 
Great Reliever, even though I run the risk of losing my own 
life. 

CALDWELL — (rushing toward her, seizing her hand and 
falling on both knees) Constance ! 

(There is a rap on the door; they do not hear it.) 

CONSTANCE— (sitting in the Morris chair) I shall 
never forget the day, the hour, the moment I placed my cool 
hand on the forehead of my dying mother. So. (She lays 
her hand across his forehead; the expression on his face 
changes immediately from one of suffering to one of relief.) 
I shall never forget the light that shone in her eyes, — the 
same light that is now shining in yours, — and I shall never 
forget the smile that played on her trembling lips, — the same 
smile that now trembles on yours, — when, just before closing 
forever, they murmured : (Her voice wavers.) "Constance, 
your hand is so soothing ; you should make it your life's 
work to relieve the sick and console the dying." (The tears 
come to her eyes; she holds her handkerchief to them.) 

CALDWELL — And haven't you been true to your 
promise ever since? Your mother did not mean that you 
should risk your life by nursing; she was thinking not of 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 29 

war but of peace. She was thinking of those whose sick- 
ness and death come about unavoidably as did her own. 

CONSTANCE — Perhaps so ; but I can't believe that she 
was excluding her own sons from my care, and I know she 
held equally dear the lives of the thousands of sons, who, with 
parched lips, are now stretching out their arms for relief. 

CALDWELL — (holding out his arms) And do those arms 
mean more to you than these? 

CONSTANCE — They are the arms of the suffering and 
the starving. 

CALDWELL — (passionately) These too, are the arms of 
one who suffers and starves — yes, Constance, starves ! Why 
should I not confess it? I am starving — starving for you. 
(She rises slowly as though afraid.) I am starving the big, 
clean, glowing, throbbing life-force which refuses to die 
within me. (He rises from his knees.) I am starving for 
that from which my body would shrink as it would from 
poison were it offered me by any woman other than you. 
(He drazvs her fiercely to him, his arms quivering.) Con- 
stance ! nourish me — relieve me ! 

(There is a second knock at the door; they do not hear it.) 

CO'NSTANCE— Doctor ! Doctor! Please let go of me. 
(There is a tremor in her voice.) You are forgetting — for- 
getting. 

(He releases her from his strong embrace and sinks down 
on his knees again, his arm on the arm of the chair, 
his face hidden in the sleeve of his coat. She walks to 
the bedside, places her hand on her patient's forehead, 
gently pushing back the blonde hair.) 

CONSTANCE — A little while ago you told me my patient 
would have no self-control, and that I should call for your 
help if I needed it. I can easily understand how one whose 
flesh is aflame with burning wounds might not be able to 
control his craving for relief ; but a man — a man whose 
body and mind remain intact — one who has never . . . 

(She stops reprimanding him because he has begun to sob 
very audibly, his broad back convulsing. She is moved ; 



30 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

she approaches him silently and slowly, and places her 
hand courageously and consolingly on his shoulder. He 
reaches for it, his face still hidden; then holding it ten- 
derly in his own, he rises gently, turning his face away 
from hers.) 

CALDWELL — Please do not hate me for what I have 
said or done. If my actions have repelled you — if I have 
proven myself unmanly and no longer worthy of your pres- 
ence, you surely will at least pity me — pity me for having 
made such a fool of myself by revealing my secret so sud- 
denly, so restraintlessly — the secret I have kept locked up 
here in my heart ever since I have come to know you. But 
if I am ashamed of the suddenness and the manner in which 
I have revealed this secret, I should not be ashamed — no, I 
must not be ashamed (He suddenly turns his head and 
looks straight into her eyes, the tears rolling down his cheeks.) 
of the secret itself. I would be even a bigger fool to be 
ashamed of the big desire which has been awakened and 
aroused in me by so tender and wonderful a woman as you 
and over which I had, for a moment, lost my control. There's 
at least this to say in my defense : You are differently con- 
stituted because you are a woman. 

CONSTANCE— (bravely) We are not all the cold, pas- 
sionless creatures we are supposed to be. Convention has 
decreed that we shall appear very proper. Unlike men, we 
would run the risk of permanent disgrace were we to dare 
breathe the fact that similar desires sometimes possess us. 
We, too, feel a natural attraction toward those of the oppo- 
site sex who are clean and strong; we, too, experience a 
sense of starvation at times. If your revelation has em- 
barrassed you, I shall relieve you by revealing my secret : 
that I also long gently for the embrace with one whom I, too, 
have . . . 

CALDWELL — (gradually letting go of her hand) Oh, 
then there is some one you love also. 

CONSTANCE — As ardently as you love me, Doctor. 

CALDWELL — It is queer that this never occurred to me. 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 31 

I wonder would it be asking too much to know if you have 
ever revealed this secret to the fortunate one? 

CONSTANCE — I never revealed it to him because I 
knew full well the consequences would be such as, during 
such times as these, had better be prevented. 

CALDWELL — But if your love for him was as ardent as 
mine for you, Nature would have forced you to reveal it. 

CONSTANCE — Nature has her way only after we lose 
our self-control ; she cannot force us to lose our self-control 
— not if we first lose ourselves in others by relieving the suf- 
fering which is deeper and more real than our own. 

CALDWELL — Deeper and more real? You would have 
me think of man's sexual desire as a trivial thing? 

CONSTANCE— After all, Doctor, it is what his thoughts 
make of it. 

CALDWELL — Of course our thinking of it acts as a 
stimulus, and forgetting about it tends toward suppression, 
but nevertheless it is fundamentally and primarily a thing 
of the flesh. The most intense mental concentration is of 
no avail to the unfortunate one who is impotent. 

CONSTANCE — But the gash made by a saber is also 
fundamentally a thing of the flesh. Yet one's thoughts 
cannot so easily shorten that gash or suppress the pain caused 
thereby ; it requires medical aid. 

CALDWELL — I understand. You would have me sup- 
press my desire by relieving instead the deeper suffering of 
your bleeding brothers. 

(He walks to the large windoiv, rests his elbows on the 
sill and covers his eyes with the palms of his hands. 
Constance lifts her yarn and needles from the floor, sits 
in the Morris chair and resumes her knitting. The dis- 
tant thunder seems a trifle louder. After some time, 
Caldwell comes forward, his eyes filled with tears.) 

CONSTANCE — You have made a decision? 

CALDWELL — I have decided that there is this difference 
between lusting after a woman and loving her : in the first 
case, a man cares only for the gratification of his own desire ; 



32 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

in the second case, he wants the gratification to be mutual. 
If mutual gratification is denied him, then his next highest 
means of attaining happiness is to do all he can to bring 
about the mutual gratification of the one he loves and the 
one she loves. Since the suffering of your brothers stands 
in the way of your desire for love and child, I have decided 
to help relieve that suffering. 

CONSTANCE — (rising to take his hand) You are going 
to enlist? 

CALDWELL— Yes ; with the Red Cross in France. 

CONSTANCE — (triumphantly) You will be doing such a 
wonderfully big unselfish thing. (She places her knitting 
on the chair, dries the tears from his eyes with her own 
handkerchief and, without hesitation, kisses his cheek like a 
sister.) Now that I have found some one to serve in my 
stead, — some one who would not have served otherwise, — 
I shall return to my dear old daddy in England. (She claps 
her hands together suddenly.) Why there's no reason why 
we shouldn't sail together on the same ship! Is there? 

CALDWELL — It would be a great treat to see you im- 
proving day by day, Constance, resting undisturbed in your 
steamer-chair and drinking in oceans of that invigorating 
sea-breeze. How the color would come blooming back into 
your cheeks ! 

CONSTANCE — And there's another reason why I want 
you on my ship. I have always felt that this man — this man 
I love — is just as clean as yourself, but there's nothing like 
being absolutely certain. You see he will be with us, and 
I thought you would be sufficiently interested to examine him 
for me. Of course you will have to approach him in a 
very delicate way. 

CALDWELL — A mere glance will serve as a diagnosis, 
and, believe me, Constance, if I have the faintest doubt, the 
approach will not be very delicate. I'll throw him over- 
board. 

CONSTANCE— O Doctor! 

CALDWELL — Although I'm not going to be the leading 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 33 

man on this trip, you can feel assured that the role I shall 
play will not be an insignificant one. I intend to make this 
fellow dance pretty much the way I whistle. For your 
sake, Constance. For your sake ; not for mine. I don't 
know that I'll feel very much like whistling, and I'm quite 
sure that I won't get any pleasure out of seeing him dance 
— in particular, with you. 

CONSTANCE — (taking up her yarn and needles) We'll 
see about that when the time comes. 

CALDWELL— When will that be? 

CONSTANCE — (walking to the bed) Just as soon as my 
patient here has convalesced sufficiently, we will prepare to 
embark. 

CALDWELL — Your patient ! You don't mean to tell me 
that — that Lindenfels is my rival. 

CONSTANCE— Now, Doctor ! Haven't you already told 
me about his past ? 

CALDWELL— Indeed I have. 

CONSTANCE — Then how could he cut you out? — as 
they say here in America. 

CALDWELL — That's right ; we've already cut him out — 
in part. 

CONSTANCE— Poor Mr. Lindenfels! (She places her 
hand on her patient's wrist to take his pulse, while Caldwell 
sits down in the Morris chair.) Think of the nice long rest 
you also will get on the way over ! The great rest that will 
precede the greater service. 

CALDWELL — And precede the greater rest, too ! 

CONSTANCE— You are referring to Death? Don't 
worry, Doctor; you won't be shot. Now you just watch 
and see if I'm not right about that. (She walks to the 
dresser and places her knitting in one of the drawers.) 

CALDWELL — Well, in case, there may be a shell waiting 
for me, even though I shall never have lived happily, I shall 
at least have died happy by enabling you to enjoy what to 
me would have . . . 

CONSTANCE — (coming up behind the chair and strok- 



34 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

ing his hair with the palm of her hand) But you shall not 
have died without having lived happily! 

CALDWELL — Do you suppose I could find any real 
happiness in these diseased women who hang around mili- 
tary camps? A lonely death would be sweeter by far than 
such a companionship. Yes, Constance, I shall have died with- 
out having lived. I could not live happily with any woman 
other than you, and if I may not live happily and purely, 
then I do not care to live at all. 

CONSTANjCE — (coming forward and sitting on the 
arm of the chair) But you will live ! You will live ! 

CALDWELL — You're referring now to that glorious 
life-after-death stuff that the ministers are pulling over the 
eyes of the conscripts so they won't see the truth until the 
truth has, in less than a moment, deprived them of every- 
thing — of their own bodies and of the soft tender hands 
like this (He reaches for her hand.) which they have held 
and pressed so lovingly, of the gentle arms which have en- 
circled their necks, of the lips trembling with happiness which 
have so often met theirs and promised them a home with 
its big joys and its little ones — the joys which will all be 
yours. 

CONSTANCE— The joys that will all be mine? (She 
rises.) Do you suppose I could be so selfish a creature as 
to ask you to sacrifice your own desires only that similar 
ones of mine might be fulfilled. Selfishness was the one 
flaw I had observed in your character. Your views on the 
sinking of the Lusitania and your views on the real purpose 
of the medical profession, logical as they were — were they 
not spoken primarily in order to camouflage your main 
reason for not enlisting: your selfish longing for me. But 
now that you have consented to abandon that selfish pleas- 
ure (not only with me but with other women, showing how 
loyally you must love me), and now that in its stead you 
have decided to do a big impersonal work of service — now — 
well — well I told you, Doctor, there was one I loved as 
ardently as you love me, but now (She sinks down on her 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 35 

knees before him.) — now with that selfish flaw eliminated 
from his character — now (She places her arms about his 
neck.) I love him ever so much the more. 

CALDWELL — (incredulously and motionless) Then you 
have been fooling me all the time? 

CONSTANCE — It is queer how the truth may be made 
to take on the color of a lie. That wedding-trip to France 
is to be our wedding-trip : Yours and mine ! (She draws 
him slightly forward.) Why don't you respond? 

CALDWELL— I— I can't believe it's true ; and, further- 
more, it's hard for me to forget your attitude toward my first 
embrace. 

CONSTANCE — It wasn't you who embraced me then. 

CALDWELL — Are you sure it's me now ? {He very cau- 
tiously places the palms of his hands under her uplifted 
arms to hold her.) 

CONSTANCE— Yes, Doctor. 

CALDWELL— (kissing her hair) When I told you I 
wanted to enjoy the greatest thing in the world, I did not 
mean that I wanted to enjoy it gluttonously without end. 
I wanted to feel that I was closer to you than to any other 
woman. However painful a death may be awaiting me on 
the field, — but for some reason or other the probability of 
that death has now vanished, — I assure you that the memory 
of the voyage preceding it will bring me infinite relief ; for 
life with you, dear, however short, will be oh so sweet ! 
As sweet as — (He reaches for the rosebud on the lapel of 
his coat. He observes that she herself has unfastened it 
with her teeth, holding it between her lips. She takes it in 
her hand, places it to his nostrils, then to her own, as she 
sinks to the floor.) I wanted to give you that rosebud as a 
symbol — as something which, under your nourishing affec- 
tion, will swell and open gradually, bloom fragrantly and dis- 
charge its fertile seed — a symbol of our love. And when the 
day which I may never see — the day which will bless you 
with a little son who will grow up to love and protect you 
in your dear old daddy's cottage — when that day comes . . . 



36 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

CONSTANCE — It will be the day of your reincarnation, 
for his life shall not be mine but the continuation of yours ; 
and because of that, it will be impossible for you to die on 
the battlefield. 

(He kisses her very gently first on one cheek, then on 
the other, finally taking her tenderly in his arms but 
gradually increasing the intensity of his embrace and 
slowly lifting her body up to his own. 
An Errand Boy, in a black rubber coat, enters the room 
without rapping. He carries four large cardboard boxes 
under his arm. His coat glistens with rain; the boxes 
too appear very wet. 
When the Boy speaks, Caldwell and Constance separate 

and rise quickly.) 
BOY— Flowers for Mr. Lindenf els ! 
CALDWELL — Young fellow, you ought to know better 
than to enter the private rooms in a hospital without knock- 
ing ; the persons in them are usually very sick. 

BOY — I believe that, sir; but I did knock I don't know 
how many times, and then I got up nerve enough to come 
in. It seems I'd been standin' out there over an hour, and 
I thought if I'd stand much longer the flowers would wilt, — 
but I guess the weather has saved them. 

(Caldwell leaves the room, the Boy's eyes following him 

suspiciously.) 
CONSTANCE — Just leave the flowers here on the chair. 
BOY — (placing the boxes across the arms of the Morris 
chair) Say, Miss; I noticed all them Silence signs out there 
in the hall, but do you suppose that important guy who just 
now went back on duty would object to your answerin' a 
question of mine? 

CONSTANCE — (fastening the rosebud to her uniform) 
That would depend on the question. What is it? 
BOY — What in the devil has happened to Lindy? 
CONSTANCE— Who is Lindy? 

BOY — Hully gee ! Don't you know Lindy — Lindenf els, 
the crack composer? 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 37 

CONSTANCE — Mr. Lindenfels underwent an opera- 
tion. 

BOY— And died? 

CONSTANCE— No. 

BOY — Then why in the heck are they sendin' him so 
many flowers? You see I know Lindy pretty well. I've 
carried many a bouquet from him to the stage door, — 'but 
this is the first time the chorus girls has sent posies to 
Lindy. I thought, maybe, they was fur his funeral. 

CONSTANCE — (laughing) He will soon be well again. 
Do you care to see him? Here he is on the bed. 

BOY — (approaching the bed with her) Hully gee ! he 
sure does look like a stiff; don't he? Have you heard his 
latest hit? 

(Constance shakes her head indicating: No.) 

BOY — Well, it's a crackerjack! I'd whistle it fur you, if 
it wasn't fur them signs out in the hall. Music's my religion. 
That new tune of Lindy's is my mornin' hymn ; it goes right 
to my feet and carries me through my day's work. There 
are lots of people in this town who couldn't live without 
Lindy's music. He's sort of a saviour to them, don't you 
know, so please take good care of him. (He starts for the 
door.) 

CONSTANCE— I shall give him all my attention. 

BOY — (with his hand on the doorknob) I'm not so dead 
sure of that; the other guy was surely gettin' his share. 

(The Boy leaves, whistling. 

Constance, smiling, rings the call-bell. Then she opens 
the upper box of flowers, removing a huge cluster of 
dark red peonies. Miss Williams enters.) 

CONSTANCE— Miss Le Grand asked me to have a pri- 
vate telephone placed at Mr. Lindenfels's bed. 

MISS WILLIAMS— I shall get one, Miss Wakefield. 

(Miss Williams leaves. Constance puts the peonies back 
into the box and places it on the table in the alcove. 
She opens a second box — a bunch of vivid orange 
poppies. Miss Williams returns with the telephone.) 



38 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

CONSTANCE — Will you connect it, please? 
(Miss Williams obeys, placing it on the small table beside 
the bed. While she is doing so, Constance takes the 
pitcher from the cabinet into the bathroom, and returns 
with it, filled with water, just as Miss Williams is about 
to leave again.) 
CONSTANCE— Miss Williams, I wonder if you could 
find a few jars or receptacles of some kind for these flowers. 
MISS WILLIAMS— Here are two vases on the dresser. 
CONSTANCE— Yes, I know, but I shall need more. 
There are four boxes of flowers in all. 

MISS WILLIAMS— I believe there are some wilted 
flowers in the sun-parlor; I shall throw them out and bring 
you the empty jars. 

CONSTANCE— Thank you. I would get them myself, 
but Mr. Linden f els may come out of the anesthetic any mo- 
ment now, and Doctor Caldwell does not want him to be 
left alone. 

MISS WILLIAMS— (leaving) Yes, Miss Wakefield. 
(Constance pours water from the pitcher into one of the 
glass vases and arranges the peonies therein, placing 
the vase in the center of the dresser. She fills the other 
vase, places the poppies in it and stands than on the 
large windowsill. She is opening the third box, filled 
with purple iris, just as Miss Williams enters with a 
large stone jar.) 
CONSTANCE— Set it on the window sill if you don't 
mind. 

MISS WILLIAMS — (obeying) These poppies have such 
a giddy color — and such a rank odor, too ! I would never 
think of sending such things to a sickroom ; they're enough 
to make even a healthy person croak. 

CONSTANCE — You could spare only one vase? 
MISS WILLIAMS— Yes. 

CONSTANCE— Well, I shall have to put two kinds of 
flowers together. 

MISS WILLIAMS— Whatever you do, don't mix any 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 39 

others in with these poppies; they would sure become in- 
fected. (She comes forward.) Shall I take the empty 
boxes with me? 

CONSTANCE— Yes; do. 

MISS WILLIAMS— (looking through the box from 
which the iris has been taken.) Here is a note. 

CONSTANCE — (taking the note and reading aloud:) 
Dear Mademoiselle Wakefield : — Be sure to put the iris in 
the same vase with the poppies. Signed, Marianne Le Grand. 
MISS WILLIAMS}— Heavens! What a combination! 
But it's just like her. You'd better do as she says, however. 
Lord help the members of her troupe down at The Lyric 
if they don't do as she commands ! I've got a girl friend in 
the cast; she says when it comes to running the universe, 
the Kaiser has nothing on Miss Le Grand. Will you need 
anything else, Miss Wakefield? 

CONSTANCE— Not at present, Miss Williams. 
MISS WILLIAMS — I hope the weather clears up; it is 
my afternoon off. 

CONSTANCE — It has stopped raining now; I think the 
sun will come out shortly. 

(Miss Williams leaves with three empty boxes. Con- 
stance fills the high stone jar with water and places 
it on the large window sill, putting both iris and poppies 
therein. She carries the empty glass vase to the smaller 
window, folds up the screen which is standing there 
so that the light falls across the bed. Then she opens 
the fourth box of flowers — a large bouquet of pink 
roses. She lifts them to her nostrils to breathe their 
fragrance. Then she lowers them and takes a longer, 
deeper breath of the rosebud on her uniform, pressing 
it to her lips again and again. Finally she carries the 
bouquet to the smaller windowsill. Just as she reaches 
the bed, Lindenfels stirs and utters a peculiar cry. The 
telephone rings. At the same moment, the sun, breaking 
through the clouds, sends a ray of its golden shine across 
her face and through the roses which she holds to her 



40 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

nostrils. She places the flowers on the counterpane over 
his chest and quickly moistens a small cloth with ice 
zvater, pressing it against his parched lips. The tele- 
phone rings again. He lifts his arms, at first feebly; 
then, as his strength returns, he places them about her 
neck, still uttering the peculiar childish cry, indicating 
intermingled pain and joy. By this time the sun has 
come out fully, illuminating her face and flooding the 
whole room with golden light. From a piano on the 
other side of the street come the strains of Robert 
Schumann's "Warum?" The telephone continues to 
ring unanswered.) 

Curtain 



ACT II 



ACT II. 

SCENE — The same as in Act One. 

It is late in the afternoon of the third day. There are 
several unwrapped packages on the dresser. The pop- 
pies and iris have been removed from the windowsill. 
The pink roses have been placed on the little white iron 
table beside the bed. 

Karl Lindenfels is still lying in bed on the flat of his back. 
He wears a pair of pale blue pajamas. His beard has 
grown considerably. 

Constance, still wearing her rosebud, sits in the alcove 
knitting peacefully. 

KARL — (awaking) Miss Vakefielt. 

CONSTANCE — (rising, placing her knitting on the sill) 
Yes, Mr. Lindenfels. 

KARL — Oh, it vasn't necessary for you to get up. I just 
vantet to know if you vere here. I can't see you ven you 
sit ofer t'ere in t'e corner, ant I alvays t'ink I shou't see you 
efery time I avaken just ass I saw you ven I came out off 
t'e anest'etic. 

CONSTANCE — (standing on the far side of the bed and 
placing her hand on his forehead) You are perspiring. Shall 
I remove the blanket ? 

KARL — If you pleace. 

(Constance draws back the counterpane, removes the 
blanket and straightens the counterpane again.) 

CONSTANCE — (folding the blanket as she walks to the 
dresser) You had a nice little sleep. 

KARL— Hat I? 

CONSTANCE— Yes; and you needed it. You didn't 
sleep very much last night ; did you ? 

KARL — I supposse I kept you avake. I trite not too. 
Ven I vantet vater I reach't for it myself so ass not to tish- 



44 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

turp you, Miss Vakefielt. 

CONSTANCE — (placing the blanket in the dresser 
drawer) You must not hesitate to awaken me whenever you 
wish anything ; that's what I am here for. Don't feel reluc- 
tant about calling me at any time — in particular, when you 
are awake. 

KARL — T'en I to call you in my shleep? 

CONSTANCE— Often, Mr. Lindenfels. 

KARL — (anxiously) Ant vat to I say? 

CONSTANCE — (coming forward and leaning over the 
foot of the bed) Oh, you say all sorts of things. It's delirium 
— you don't know what you are saying, so I don't pay any 
attention to it. 

KARL — I supposse I shpeak off t'e t'ings I am treaming 
apout. I he'rt such vonterf ul musik in my tream last night ; 
I pelief it vas Schumann's "Warum?" 

CONSTANCE — Yes ; I heard it also. There is somebody 
in one of those houses across the street who plays such 
good music and plays it so well. (She walks to the large 
window.) I believe it comes from the yellow brick build- 
ing. (She takes up her knitting from the sill and comes for- 
ward to sit in the Morris chair.) 

KARL — Are you font off musik, Miss Vakefielt? 

CONSTANCE— Of good music? I love it. I have two 
brothers : one plays the piano ; the other, the violin. I used 
to sit for hours listening to them playing "Die Lieder ohne 
Worte" and Schumann's "Warum?" also. 

KARL — (fluently and pensively) Die Lieder ohne Worte? 

CONSTANCE — Genuine music needs no words to convey 
its significance ; does it ? Music expresses so many beautiful 
ideas that seem common-place when one tries to put them 
in language. 

KARL — Musik tuss not alvays exshpress vat is pe'utiful? 

CONSTANCE — It does if the composer of it has led a 
pure life — if his works are naturally inspired and not the 
dictations of a diseased brain that has been excited by nico- 
tine and wine. 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 45 

KARL — Putt if impurity ant consciousness off self naff 
ruin't hiss apility to exshpress pe'utiful iteas musikally, 
may he not shtill haff pe'utiful t'oughts vich he can ex- 
shpress py langwitch ven hiss life iss more unconscious — 
more shpiritu'l? 

CONSTANCE— Perhaps. 

KARL — Ven you retire tonight, Miss Vakefielt, vou't 
you mint putting a pat off paper ant a pencil unter your 
pillow? 

CONSTANCE— Why, Mr. Lindenfels? 

KARL — I vant you to recort vat I say in my shleep. 
(There is a noticeable pause.) Do you supposse I vill shleep 
tonight ? 

CONSTANCE — Doctor Caldwell will give you some- 
thing to induce sleep. 

KARL — Toctor Caltvell comes to see me quite often ; 
tussn't he? 

CONSTANCE— Yes. 

KARL — Tuss he come to see all off hiss patients ass fre- 
quently ass he sees me? 

CONSTANCE — He has always called on my patients 
very frequently. 

KARL — I am so glat I am your patient. 

CONSTANCE— You must like Doctor Caldwell. 

KARL — Yes ; he's such a clean-looking man, and he hass 
such vonterf ully clear eyes. I like to look into t'em ; ton't 
you? 

CONSTANCE— Eveybody likes Doctor Caldwell. 

(There is a noticeable silence, during which Constance 
continues to knit energetically.) 

KARL — Haffn't t'ese roses a vonterful otor, Miss Vake- 
fielt? 

CONSTANCE — They are very fragrant. 

KARL — V'y ton't you vear vone off t'ese inshte't off t'at 
stinchy little rosebut? 

CONSTANCE— They are all open too far; the petals 
would fall off. This bud has lasted two days, and it will 



46 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

last much longer. I put it in fresh water every night. 

KARL — I like to shmell t'ese roses at night ven I can't 
shleep. T'e first night — night pefore last — ven you gafe me 
t'e hypotermic, it te'ten't my pain, putt I vas shtill avake ; 
ant I vile't avay t'e time py shmelling t'ese roses, taking each 
vone separately, returning it to t'e fase — ant t'en peginning 
all ofer again. Vone hass to to somet'ing to pass time. 
Vonce I push't t'e trinking tupe off t'e taple — py accitent. 
It fell on t'e tile floor, putt t'e noise tit not avaken you; so 
I kept on shmelling t'e roses. All night long I t'ought I vas 
in a rose garten somev'ere among t'e clouts, ant t'e air vas 
so fragrant, ant t'ere vas musik ; t'at same song vitout vorts — 
Schumann's "Warum?" Ant t'ere vas an ainchel all in vite 
mooring apout from push to push, pulling t'e roses ant 
hanting t'em to me vone py vone. 

CONSTANCE— That was the effect of the morphine. 
Now you understand why some persons take it all the time 
and become fiends. But you have no more pain ; have you, 
Mr. Lindenfels? 

KARL — No continual pain, putt efery vonce in a vile I 
exshperience t'e sensation off a colt knife plunching into 
my site. 

CONSTANCE— That's due to the ice-cap. 

KARL — Putt my site is shtill sore. 

CONSTANCE— It will be for some time. But you don't 
notice the soreness unless you move ; do you ? 

KARL — No ; putt I get f ery ti'ert lying on vone shpot so 
long. 

CONSTANCE— Shall I relieve the tension in your 
muscles by placing a pillow under your knees ? 

KARL — If you pleace, Miss Vakefielt. 

(She goes to the dresser, places her knitting on it, opens 
one of the drawers to obtain the extra pillow, returns 
to the bed, lifts the covers and pushes the pillow gently 
under his legs.) 

CONSTANCE— Does that feel better? 

KARL— Much petter ; t'ank you. 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 47 

CONSTANCE — Would you like a drink of fresh water? 

KARL — Not just now, Miss Vakefielt. 

(She returns to the dresser, takes up her knitting and then 
places it down again when she observes the packages.) 

CONTANCE — I forgot to tell you that several pack- 
ages came this afternoon. Do you wish me to open them? 

KARL— If you vill. 

CONSTANCE — (unwrapping the first one) A large box 
of kisses ! 

KARL — From whom? 

CONSTANCE — (carrying an envelope to the bed) This 
note came with them. (He opens the envelope and reads 
while she is returning to the dresser.) Of course you 
shouldn't have a kiss just yet ; your stomach isn't ready for 
it. 

KARL — I ton't vish any anyhow ; Gwentolyn's mout' iss 
so crooket — in particular, ven she sings. (He drops the 
note on the floor.) 

CONSTANCE — And here is a fine box of salted nuts. 

KARL — From whom? 

CONSTANCE— The card says : Maybelle McConnelle— 
M-a-y-b-e-double-1-e. 

KARL — Yes; Mapel tussn't know how to shpell. T'ey 
took her into t'e chorus pecausse she iss so goot-looking. I 
use't to t'ink she vas, putt she really issn't. She hass a nose 
like a mousetrap ant an ear like a clam. 

CONSTANCE— Poor Maybelle! (She opens the third 
package.) And here is a box of big red cherries — and a 
card. 

KARL — Reat it, pleace. 

CONSTANCE — (reading) Take one every ten minutes, 
and if you are still lonely for me, then swallow the whole — 
(She stops reading suddenly and carries the card to the bed.) 
I think you had better read this for yourself. 

KARL — Ant if you are shtill lonely for me, t'en shwallow 
t'e whole tamn pox. Your little hell cat : Taisy Montana. 

CONSTANCE — Do you think it is safe for me to open 



48 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

any more, Mr. Lindenfels? 

KARL — Are you afrait you'll fint a pox of bomb-bombs? 

CONSTANCE — It's the language I am referring to. 

KARL — Oh I see; veil, supposse you reat each cart to 
yourself first, and if you t'ink it vill shock me, ton't reat it 
out lout. I supposse a sick man ought to naff a censor. Putt 
Taisy iss really t'e only memper of t'e chorus who shvares 
real fluently. 

CONSTANCE— Here is a basket of fruit "with love from 
Carmen Caillaux." (She reads:) Dear Karl : — Hurry up 
and get well ; without you life is pepless. 

KARL — Vitout Carmen life iss pestless. 

CONSTANCE — Would you like one of her peaches? 

KARL — No ; it iss too near meal-time ; anyhow her peaches 
vou't pe ass sour ass Carmen. 

CONSTANCE— A box of candy from Violet Remington. 

KARL — Poor Fiolet ! She hass a f oice like a typewriter. 
How many more packages are t'ere, Miss Vakefielt? 

CONSTANCE— Four boxes and three baskets. 

KARL — Veil, ton't mint opening any more. Giff t'em 
to your frients — to t'e nurse who iss caring for t'e olt man 
vit cancer, to t'e nurse who iss attenting to t'e girl vit a 
goitre, to t'e nurse who iss vaiting on t'e young voman who 
vas inchert py her trunken husspant, to t'e nurse who iss 
vatching ofer t'at chilt who vas porn vit so many teformi- 
ties on account off her tiseas't vat'er ; to all t'ose frients off 
yours who are nursing all t'ose unfortunate tefils you tolt 
me apout. Giff my canty to t'em, and t'en Gwentolyn ant 
Mapel ant Taisy ant Carmen ant Fiolet vill haff ton a goot 
ting for vonce in t'eir lives. 

CONSTANCE — (throwing the wrapping papers into the 
wastebasket) You must have lots of friends, Mr. Lindenfels. 

KARL — T'ey use't to pe my frients, putt now t'ey seem 
like phantoms, ant I feel like running avay from t'em. I 
feel ass t'ough I nefer vant to see t'em again. T'eir canty 
vou't leaf a fery pat taste in my mout\ 

(Miss Williams enters with a tray of food. She carries 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 49 

it toward the bed and places it on the small windozv- 
sill. After clearing the small table of the telephone, 
ice-water and roses by placing them on the sill, she 
places the tray from the sill on the table.) 

KARL — To you like canty, Miss Villiams? 

MISS WILLIAMS— Passionately, Mr. Lindenfels. 

KARL — T'en take a pox vit you from f e tresser. 

MISS WILLIAMS (pretending obedience) We are not 
allowed to accept presents from the patients. There are 
the rules on the back of the door. 

KARL — I'm not giffing fe canty avay; I'm t'rowing it 
avay. 

MISS WILLIAMS— Oh, that's different. 

(She takes a box of candy from the dresser on the way 
out, winking at Constance who is approaching the bed.) 

CONSTANCE — (taking the napkin from the tray and 
spreading it across Karl's chest) Doctor Caldwell has allowed 
you a soft-boiled egg tonight — your first solid food. 

KARL— No more prof, T'ank Got ! 

CONSTANCE— (opening the egg) Shall I break up the 
toast in the egg? 

KARL — If you pleace, Miss Vakefielt. 

CONSTANCE — From what you said, it seems you are 
tired of consomme. 

KARL — It must pe t'at class tupe t'at makes it taste 
alvays like meticine. 

CONSTANCE— Well, after this I shall feed it to you 
with a spoon. 

KARL — Cou't you raice my he't a little higher vit anot'er 
pillow ? 

CONSTANCE — Yes ; I shall use this one which is under 
your knees. 

(She removes the pillow carefully, shakes it, passes her 
left arm under his neck, lifts his head and places the 
pillow under it.) 

KARL— T'ank you; fat's much petter. 

CONSTANCE — (after giving him the first spoonful of 



50 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

egg) Does it taste good ? (He nods his head.) That's right ; 
don't try to speak. You may choke on it, and if you have 
to cough, it will hurt your side. (Pause) Is the egg sea- 
soned enough? 

KARL — Yes ; let me naff some more quick. 

CONSTANCE — (giving him a second spoonful) The 
eggs served here are always nice and fresh. 

KARL — T'e finest egg I haff ef er tasted ! 

(Constance gases out of the window, and Karl gases up 
into her face. When she places the third spoonful to 
his mouth, he is still dreaming.) 

CONSTANCE — Oh, I am so sorry, but you forgot to 
open your mouth. That's why I spilled the egg all over your 
chin. (She uses the napkin.) 

KARL — I neet a shafe; ton't I. My peart is he'fy 
enough to pore a hole t'rough t'e pillow. 

CONSTANCE — I shall have the .barber stop in tomor- 
row morning. (She gives him a fourth spoonful and then 
glances out the window again.) 

KARL — I am re'ty for more, Miss Vakefielt. 

(As she continues to feed him, Marianne Le Grand enters 
dressed in an elaborately beaded gown with hat and 
shoes to match, carrying a fancy handbag and a bunch 
of silk flowers of the same shade as her dress.) 

MARIANNE — (leaving her bag on the Morris chair and 
approaching the bed) Bonjour, Monsieur Karl ; comment 
allez-vous ? 

KARL — Tres bien. 

MARIANNE — Qa me fait beaucoup de plasir d'entendre 
ca. (to Constance,) It is so fine to see him eat again. Soon 
he will be back to his composing. Let me see what zey feed 
to mon petit genie. (She stands on tiptoe to observe the tray 
on the other side of the bed.) Des oeufs a la coque, de la 
rotie au beurre, du consomme — ah, if only he could have 
zee lobster and champagne ! But soon we will eat an old 
time dinner togezer. 

CONSTANCE — If you wish to have dinner here with 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 51 

Mr. Lindenfels now, I shall get you a tray. 

MARIANNE— Zat would be fine, Mademoiselle; and 
I shall feed mon cher Karl till you come back. (She re- 
moves her gloves.) 

CONSTANCE — (leaving) Very well, if you care to do 
so — but I shall be back directly. 

MARIANNE — (standing before the tray on the far side 
of the bed) Ah ! it is great plasir to wait on mon cher Karl. 
Que preferez-vous ? Un peu plus de oeuf ? 

KARL — Non ; consomme. 

MARIANNE — And how do you drink zee consomme? 

KARL — T'rough t'at tamn class tupe. 

MARIANNE — Oh, je comprends. Like zrough zee 
straw — eh ! Ah, zat make you zink of zee Creme de Menthe. 
I am glad zere is somezing about zee hospital to remind mon 
cher Karl of zee life he is missing. (She places the tube 
to his lips.) 

KARL — (angrily) You haff pour't half off it town my 
neck. 

MARIANNE — Pardonez moi. Come; I do better zis 
time. 

KARL — No more. It iss rotten — oh, so rotten ! 

MARIANNE — I shall have to see. (She sips some of it.) 
Ugh ! you are right. It taste like zee dishwater. 

KARL — Tishvater! How to you know vat tishvater 
tastes like ven you haff nefer seen t'e insite off a kitchen? 
You ton't eefen know how to make tishvater. You ton't 
know how to make anyt'ing — not eefen a pet. You shou't 
see Miss Vakefielt make my pet — make it vile I am shtill in 
it. It iss vonterf ul ! 

MARIANNE — (with jealousy) Yes. Mademoiselle 
Wakefield can do such zings — but she cannot sing — like me. 

KARL — Perhaps not; putt she makes me fery comfort- 
aple. 

MARIANNE — Ah, she make baby of mon cher Karl 
always feeding him wiz zee spoon. Monsieur should have 
had man-nurse. (She walks to the Morris chair, sits on the 



52 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

arm of it and swings her foot.) 

KARL — A man-nurse ? Go vay ! A man-nurse vou't 
hantle me so rough t'at efery time he vou't giff me a trink 
off vater it vou't open my vount. Miss Vakefielt iss ass 
gentle ass an ainchel. 

MARIANNE— An angel ! Oh, I hate angels. 

KARL — Off course you to ; you luff vicketness — you al- 
vays tit. You hate gootness in any vone. 

MARIANNE— Goodness ! Ha ha ha . . Goodness! 
(She crosses her legs and continues to swing her foot.) 
Mademoiselle Wakefield and Monsieur Lindenfels in zis 
room all alone all night long — Goodness ! 

KARL — For Got's sake, Marianne, ton't insult Miss 
Vakefielt by putting her in your class. She iss a voman ; not 
a prima tonna. 

MARIANNE— Monsieur ! 

^Constance enters with another tray. No one speaks. 
She rests it on the small table in the alcove and theyt 
carries the table forward, placing it near the foot of the 
bed. She also brings forward the small chair, placing it 
beside the table so that the guest may face the patient. 
Marianne sits down at the table and spreads the napkin 
across her lap.) 

MARIANNE— (coldly) Merci, Mademoiselle. 

CONSTANCE — (lifting the silk flowers from the Morris 
chair) Did you wish these placed in water? 

MARIANNE — (sniggering) Non non, Mademoiselle; you 
are so stupid. Zey are artificiel — a part of my dress. (She 
glances at the flowers on the sill.) Where are zee poppies 
and zee iris? Did you not get my note in zee box? 

CONSTANCE— Yes, Miss Le Grand. 

KARL — I told Miss Vakefielt to put t'e poppies in t'e 
sun-parlor so t'at t'e ot'er patients coul't see t'e bright colors. 

MARIANNE — But, Mon cher Karl, I sent zem to you. 
Zey are . 

KARL — I t'ought k vou't not hurt to giff a little off your 
luff to t'e ot'er patients — to olt Mr. Collingvoot, for example, 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 53 

whose nurse rolls him t'rough t'e hall efery morning past my 
tore. He has cancer, Marianne — incuraple cancer. He 
hass peen here for almost t'ree years ; in anot'er year fey 
vill put him in a hole in t'e grount. You surely ton't mint 
if Miss Vakefielt places t'e poppies v'ere t'at poor olt tefil can 
see t'em. 

MARIANNE — Ah, vous ne comprenez pas, Monsieur 
Karl. I will gladly send some flowers to zis Monsieur Col- 
lingwood's room, but zee poppies and zee iris — non. Zey 
must be where mon cher Karl can see zem. Zey have zee 
same coleurs as Marianne's costume in zee last act of zee 
opera when she sing la belle chanson which mon petit genie 
has not yet finished. Mon cher Karl — he must not forget 
zee opera. Bring in zee poppies and zee iris, Mademoiselle. 

(Constance leaves the room.) 

MARIANNE — Ah, mon cher Karl, you are lose interest 
in zee opera. You are begin to pity zee sick peoples and zee 
old man wiz zee cancer who is already half dead. Mon cher 
Karl must zink of brighter zings, of living peoples, of life, 
of youth, of laughter, of song, of danse, of musique, of me. 

(Constance returns with the jar of flowers.) 

MARIANNE — See how zee poor poppies are fading and 
wilting because mon cher Karl will not look at zem. Put 
zem at zee window beside his bed, Mademoiselle, and take 
zee pink roses to zee sun-parlor. Let zee poor old man wiz 
zee nasty cancer have zee nice pink roses. 

(Constance leaves the room with the roses.) 

MARIANNE — So. Now mon petit genie will zink of his 
opera. Could you not work on zee manuscript, mon cher 
Karl, if you would sit up in bed? 

KARL — I must lie on my pack until t'e sefenth tay. 

MARIANNE — Oh, how I hate zee fixed rules of zee hos- 
pital. (She takes up the salt cellar and seasons her lamb 
chop.) No meat until zee fifth day. (She puts down the 
salt with a bang and takes up the pepper.) No sit up until 
zee seventh day. (She puts down the pepper with a similar 
bang.) It is all so absurd. It is well enough for zee man 



54 • THE GREAT RELIEVER 

ordinaire, but zee genius must know no laws. (She seizes 
her knife and attacks the chop.) 

KARL — Ton't try to run t'e hospital, Marianne. For 
Got's sake, shut your mout' ant eat. 
(Constance appears again.) 

CONSTANCE — Do you wish anything more, Mr. Lin- 
denfels? 

KARL — A little plack coffee, pleace. 
CONSTANCE — (going to the tray) I suppose it's cold 
by this time. 

MARIANNE— Here is my pot, Mademoiselle. I not 
drink coffee; it ruin zee complexion. 

(Constance takes the little silver pot from Marianne and 

pours some coffee into his cup.) 
KARL— Must I take it t'rough t'at awful tupe, Miss 
Vakefielt ? 

CONSTANCE — No, I shall raise your head and then you 
can drink it from the cup. 

(She places her left arm under his neck, lifts his head 
and places the cup to his lips. Marianne drops her knife 
and fork and watches enviously what she mistakes for 
a display of affection.) 
CONSTANCE— Is it too hot? 

KARL — It iss just right — fery, fery goot, Miss Vake- 
fielt. T'at vill be enough ; t'ank you. 

(Constance places the cup on the tray, removes the nap- 
kin and carries the tray toward the door.) 
CONSTANCE — (at the door) I am going for dinner now, 
Mr. Lindenfels. If you want anything, just ring. 
KARL — Ton't forget to take some canty vit you. 
(Constance rests the tray on the dresser, places several 
boxes of candy upon it while Marianne is craning her 
neck to watch her. The nurse leaves.) 
MARIANNE — Ah, you buy candy for Mademoiselle! 
Three boxes ! Why did you not ask me to give you zee 
coffee? I could put my arm around mon cher Karl's neck 
just as well as Mademoiselle Wakefield. 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 55 

KARL — V'y ton't you eat? Your lampchop vill be colt. 

MARIANNE— Ah, elle est exquis ! 

KARL — I can shmell it ofer here — shmell it all t'e petter 
pecausse I haff not shmell't meat for t'ree tays. 

MARIANNE — (carrying a bite to him on her fork) Mon 
cher Karl, zey are starving you. (She holds the meat to his 
mouth.) 

KARL — No, Marianne ; Toctor Caltvell says I am not 
allow't to eat meat yet, and if I tit, poor Miss Vakefielt vou't 
get t'e plame. 

MARIANNE — (walking away from the bed and throw- 
ing the fork down on the tray) I hate Monsieur le docteur ; 
I hate zis Mademoiselle Wakefield ; I hate zee whole damn 
hospital. (She ties her napkin in a knot and fires it down on 
the tray.) 

KARL — (laughing) Ha ha ha . . (holding his side) 
Ouch ! Ha ha ha . . . Ouch ! Ha ha ha . . Ouch ! 

MARIANNE— (mockingly) Ha ha ha . . . Ouch! 
Ha ha ha . . . Ouch ! 

KARL — Ton't make me laugh, Marianne; it hurts ven I 
laugh. 

MARIANNE — It hurt me too when you laugh. Mon 
cher Karl no more love Marianne. (She sinks into the Mor- 
ris chair, weeping aloud and using her handkerchief — very 
carefully.) 

KARL — (holding out his arms to her comically) Je vous 
atore ! Je vous atore ! 

MARIANNE — You lie; you make fool of Marianne 
after she has so much done for you. Oh, zee ingratitude — 
zee ingratitude ! (She dries her eyes, and uses the powder 
and mirror from her handbag.) I sing his songs as no one 
else could sing zem ; I bring him before zee public ; I make 
him famous. Zen he forsake me for zis ordinaire femme 
de chambre — zis Mademoiselle Wakefield. Any woman 
could do what she do for you. Zere are five hundred like 
her in zee city; zeir names are all in zee directory. Five 
hundred, Monsieur ! Five hundred ! But zere is only one 



56 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

Marianne Le Grand who want to make you great man — who 
want to make whole world worship you. Ah, mon cher 
Karl, you must forget zis Mademoiselle, zis hospital, zis 
everyzing. And I have brought somezing zat will make you 
forget too. (She produces a bottle of wine from her hand- 
bag.) Zis ! Zis ! I know Monsieur le docteur not want you 
drink wine ; mais il ne comprend pas. He not know zat you 
are a great genius who can violate laws and still survive — 
who must violate all zee rules to survive. Zat is why I 
have smuggled in zee wine ; I have already drawn zee cork 
so zat no one would hear. (She pours some wine into the 
cup on her tray.) Ah, zee good wine ! (She carries it to 
the far side of the bed.) Come let Marianne put arms around 
your neck like nurse ; let Marianne lift your head. (She 
imitates the nurse's method.) Come, mon cher Karl, drink 
a little wine for zee inspiration. 

KARL — Marianne you must not tempt me like t'is ; you 
know my appetite for vine ; you know how it makes my plutt 
poil — how it excites me. I neet rest, Marianne. I must not 
trink ; I vill not trink ! 

MARIANNE — (rubbing her cheek against his) Ah, mon 
cher Karl — mon petit genie — take not much — only one sip — 
one little sip. (She places the cup to his lips.) 

KARL — (pushing the cup away angrily) I tell you no ! 
Tamn it, no ! If I took it, Miss Vakefielt vou't be tishcharg't. 

MARIANNE— (ferociously) Miss Wakefield! Miss 
Wakefield! Tou jours! Tou jours! Tou jours! (She with- 
drazvs her arm suddenly, letting his head fall back on the 
pillow.) Oh how I (sarcastically) love zis Miss Wakefield ! 
(She returns to the table and fills the cup to the brim.) I will 
drink to you, Mademoiselle Wakefield. A votre sante? 
(then with vicious contempt) Non ! Non ! Non ! Not to 
your health, but to your damnation! (She drains the cup 
and then dashes it down on the tray.) Bonsoir, Monsieur 
Lindenfels. (She takes up her flozvers and her handbag, 
struts to the door, then turns suddenly to throw him a kiss.) 
Bonsoir ! 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 57 

(She leaves the room. Karl reaches for the call-bell, rings 
it three times, pausing long between each ring. Miss 
Williams enters quickly.) 

MISS WILLIAMS— Miss Wakefield is at dinner; she 
has asked me to answer your calls. 

KARL — Pleace take t'ese rotten, foul-shmelling poppies 
avay. T'row t'em in t'e carbitch can, ant pring me t'e pink 
roses from t'e sun-parlor. 

(Miss Williams seems to understand. Holding the flowers 
at arm's length with one hand and holding her nose 
with the other, she staggers from the room. 

It is gradually growing dark out-of-doors. 

Karl pulls on the light at the head of his bed, then reaches 
under his pillozv for his zvatch and opens it.) 

KARL — Marianne, you poisonous olt shnake ! To t'ink 
t'at I naff carrie't your picture in my vatch next to my 
heart ! I vant no more to see you. No more ! No more ! 
(He dashes the watch on the tile floor.) 

fMiss Williams enters with the roses.) 

MISS WILLIAMS— Where shall I put them Mr. Lin- 
denfels? 

KARL — Here on t'e taple pesite me, pleace. 

MISS WILLIAMS — (obeying) Is there anything else I 
can do for you? 

KARL — Yes; pleace remoof t'at tray — ant cover up t'e 
pottle. 

MISS WILLIAMS— (sternly) Have you been drinking, 
sir? 

KARL— V'y to you ask? 

MISS WILLIAMS— Because Doctor Caldwell forbids 
you to. 

KARL — Veil, you're not going to tell him ; are you ? 

MISS WILLIAMS — (holding the tray over her shoulder) 
I am supposed to. 

KARL — You are also supposse't not to take canty. Pleace 
take ano'ter pox on t'e vay out. 

(She walks to the dresser, puts a box of candy on the 



58 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

tray and then leaves the room — almost colliding with 
Tony as he enters. He waves his hand after her and 
throws her a few kisses as she marches down the hall. 
Tony has a violin-case in his hand and a small package 
under his arm. He is a handsome Italian with devilish 
eyes, red cheeks and lips, and a black mustache. He 
wears a soft green felt hat at a rakish angle, and does 
not remove it — for he is a reckless musician absolutely 
devoid of manners. He deposits his case and package 
on the Morris chair and rushes to the bed, falling across 
it.) 
TONY— Oh, Mista Carlo! Mista Carlo! Me glad! Me 
glad! 

KARL— Ouch ! 

TONY — Oh, me f or-ged ; me f or-ged. When dey tella me 
dey cuda you open, me sleepa nod a wink; and when me 
playa da violin, tremolo. . . tremolo . . tremolo. Bud 
now you live again, and Tony play again. (He opens his 
violin-case and takes out the instrument and the bow.) 
Yes. Listen, Mista Carlo ; Tony — he play again. (He 
draws the bow across the strings, producing beautiful legato 
strains.) 

KARL — Yes, Tony ; I can hear t'at you are petter again. 
TONY — Bud Mista Carlo — he nod yed bedder. Da eyes — 
dey looga far bag ; and he needa da shave. 
KARL — T'e parper's coming to-morrow. 
TONY — Den Mista Carlo looga nize. (He pinches 
Karl's cheeks affectionately.) Den Mista Carlo looga like 
selve. Now Mista Carlo looga like — like — 
KARL— Like hell? 

TONY — No ; he looga more like Chrized. 
KARL — I haffn't suffer't so much ass t'at, Tony. 
TONY — Telia me: when dey stiga da knive in da bell, 
mucha pain? 

KARL — You ton't feel any off it, Tony. 

TONY — Nod till you wega up? 

KARL— T'e vaking up! T'at iss vonterful; t'at iss t'e 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 59 

crantest t'ing I haff efer exshperience't. Sit town, Tony; 
I vill tell you apout it. (Tony perches on the near side of 
the bed. The room is almost dark now save for the light 
from the reading-lamp, which falls only on the pillows and 
the counterpane.) You seem to pe up among t'e clouts, 
ant you hear sveet musik. Play somet'ing, Tony : play 
some Schumann. (Tony places the violin under his chin 
and, by chance, starts and continues the "Warum?" with 
much feeling and expression.) T'ere iss a haze — a golten 
mist pefore your eyes, and t'rough t'e mist you pegin to see 
a lot off pink roses ; ant t'e roses open viter ant viter ant 
pecome pinker ant pinker — ant among t'em you gratually see 
an ainchel. An ainchel, Tony ! An ainchel — all in vite. 
Oh, such a luffly ainchel vit such luffly eyes ! Ant she pents 
ofer you ant kisses your lips vit cool vater. 

TONY — (stopping the music abruptly) Wid cool wader? 
No ; me like-a da wine on da angel lip ! 

KARL — No, Tony; t'ere iss no vine to make your plutt 
hot. Your lips are alre'ty hot, ant t'e ainchel kisses t'em vit 
cool vater. Ant oh, how she reliefs you ! 

TONY — (jumping from the bed) No. Mista Carlo — he 
dream; dis nod real. 

KARL — It iss real, Tony. See here are t'e roses. Come 
ant shmell t'em. How fine ! (He reaches over and lifts the 
roses from the table.) 

TONY — Me nod like-a smell roses; me like-a smell niza 
cigar, (He places his violin on the chair and opens the 
package.) Me foringa Mista Carlo niza box cigars. 

KARL — I am not allow't to shmoke, Tony. (He re- 
turns the roses.) 

TONY — (opening the box and offering it) Mista Carlo 
smoke-a one — jusda one wid Tony. 

KARL — No, Tony ; t'e ainchel tussn't vant me to shmoke. 

TONY — (exasperated) Dis angel mega me sick. Dis 
angel nod like-a cigaredd like-a Carmen, like-a Daisy, like-a 
Maybelle, like-a Gwendolyn — eh, Mista Carlo? (He pokes 
his finger playfully into Karl's ribs.) 



60 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

KARL— Ouch ! 

TONY — Oh, me for-ged; me for-ged. (He takes a cigar 
from the box and returns the box to the chair. He strikes 
a match on his trousers and lights his cigar.) 

KARL — Taisy ant Mapel — t'ey are not'ing compar't to 
t'is ainchel. 

TONY — Where is dis angel? Me looga for dis angel. 
(With his match still burning, he gets down on his knees 
and crawls part way under the bed.) Whad dis ? (He pulls 
the cot out part way.) 

KARL — T'at's t'e ainchel's pet. 

TONY — Whad? Dis angel crawla between here to 
sleep ? 

KARL — No ; she pulls it out first. 

TONY— Oh ! (He finds the watch.) Looga, Mista Carlo ; 
me finda dis angel's alarm clog. See ! here is da angel's 
pigdure inside. 

KARL— No, Tony; t'at's t'e tevil's picture. 

TONY — (holding the picture in the Ught) Dis Marianne 
Le Grand. 

KARL — Yes ; you giff her t'e vatch tonight at rehearsal. 
Tell her I sent it to her ; tell her it von't go no more. 

TONY — You wanda Marianne to fixa wadge ? 

KARL — She can't haff it mentet ; it iss proken for ef er — 
for efer. 

TONY — (rising quickly from his knees) Whad ! Mista 
Carlo — he no more love-a Marianne? 

KARL — I nefer tit luff Marianne. I nefer knew vat luff 
vas until I saw t'e ainchel — t'e ainchel who kiss't my lips 
vit cool vaiter. 

TONY — (laughing) Oh, Mista Carlo — he soon wega 
up ; he nod love-a dis angel long — angel and cool wader and 
Schumann. He soon wanda Marianne again and Carmen 
and Maybelle; he soon wanda real woman — woman and 
wine. And Mista Carlo will sing again whad he singa always : 
(playing his accompaniment, holding bow and cigar in the 
same hand) 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 61 

"Wer liebt nicht Weib, Wein und Gesang, 
Er blei'bt ein Narr sein Leben lang." 

KARL — No, Tony ; I am t'rough vit girls who haff vine 
ant rootch on t'eir lips ant vildfire in t'eir feins ant eyes. I 
hafT seen t'e ainchel now, ant I luff her. (He repeats it 
with an emotional tremor.) I luff her; Ich Hebe wie ich 
noch nie geliebt ! T'ere's such a kint soft, pe'utiful light 
in her eyes — Lieibeslicht ! Ant her hant makes me feel so 
goot ven she touches my forehe't. I am so happy ven she 
iss near me, Tony, I fint it hart to shpeak. T'at's real luff, 
Tony : ven a man iss af rait to tell a voman how much he 
atores her — ven he hass to pretent he iss ashleep pefore he 
hass t'e courritch to shpeak vat iss on hiss heart. 

TONY — (walking away from the bed, shaking his head) 
Mista Carlo — he mucha sick; mucha sick. 

KARL — (more forcibly) Oh, I know vat lust iss, Tony ; 
I know vat you enchoy ant pelief in : Sitting up late at 
night ofer your vine pottles, trinking to t'e purning eyes 
across t'e taple — trinking until your he't feels pig ant varm 
— until your whole poty feels pig ant varm — ant t'en empty- 
ing yourself out again ant again until you are vorn out ant 
veak — until t'e last trop of fitality hass peen shot out off your 
system. (He shakes his head.) No more off t'at for me, 
Tony. I vill haff not'ing more to to vit vimmen who haff 
not'ing putt poties. I vant a voman vit a soul — like t'e 
ainchel. 

TONY — Mista Carlo — he become saind ; me said he looga 
like Chrized. Mista Carlo musd geda shave quig and come-a 
bag to Marianne, to Maybelle, to Daisy. Herr Schmedder- 
ling — he nod condugd like Mista Carlo — no abandono — no 
pep ! Maybelle, Carmen, Gwendolyn — nod able to dance : 
Miss Le Grand nod able to sing; orchesdra nod able to play. 
Mista Carlo nod condugd rehearsal, den rehearsal go-a rotten 
— rotten — rotten . 

KARL — I vill nefer return again, Tony. I am going to 
giff up t'at life ant liff a new vone. 

TONY — (with vehemence) No, no, no, Mista Carlo ; no 



62 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

no, no. (He paces the floor, scratching furiously on his 
violin.) 

KARL — (with determination) Yes, yes, yes, Mister Tony; 
yes, yes, yes. Tell Marianne, tell Schmetterling, tell Guil- 
bert, tell all of t'em I nef er vant to see t'em again. Nefer ! 
TONY — You tawga nonsense. (He approaches the bed 
with a leap and thrusts his bow into Karl's side as though it 
were a poinard.) God damn it ! Weg up ! 
KARL— Ouch ! Ouch ! 

TONY — (scratching his head )Oh, me for-ged; me for-ged. 
But Mista Carlo — he noda ride in da head ; he tawga like sick 
monkey. No smoke ! No Wine ! No Maybelle ! He no more 
man. Dis angel — she mega angel of Mista Carlo too. 

KARL — She hass made a new man off him, Tony — t'e 
kint of man a pure voman hass alvays peen villing to lift" 
vit putt nefer aple to fint. A fellow hass got to cut out more 
t'an hiss appentix if he vishes to afoit pain ant misery; he 
hass got to cut out t'e hapits t'at ruin hiss mint ant poty; 
he hass got to come to voman ass pure ant untaintet ass t'e 
ainchel hass come to me. 

TONY — (throwing his violin into the case) Dis angel — 
she mega Mista Carlo crazy in da nud. (He snatches up the 
violin-case.) Gooda nide ; me lade for overture. Me wisha 
dis angel in hell ! 

KARL — She iss in hell, Tony; she iss here in t'is hospi- 
tal vich iss fill't vit croaning sinners ant innocent vimmen 
ant chiltern who are t'e consequences off intemperance ant 
proshtitution. She iss an ainchel in hell, Tony, trying to 
trife out t'e tefil ant pring relief to t'ose whom he hass 
lure't into hiss vays. 

(Tony rushes to the door and finds himself face to face 
with Constance, zvho has just opened it. She remains 
standing on the threshold, the light from the hall falling 
on her white uniform and causing it to stand out 
brightly in contrast with the darkness of the room. 
Tony, for the first time since his entrance, removes his 
hat and passes her with bowed head. Constance enters 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 63 

the room and closes the door softly. She lights the 
bracket-lamp between the door and the dresser. J 
CONSTANCE— Another friend of yours, Mr. Linden- 
fels? 

KARL — Yes ; vone off t'e players in t'e orchestra. 
CONSTANCE — (carrying the small chair back to its 
place in the alcove) You have had lots of visitors and pres- 
ents this afternoon. 

KARL — Tit you giff t'e canty to t'e nurses ? 
CONSTANCE — Oh, yes; while they were at dinner. 
They all asked me to thank you ever so much, and they all 
wish you a speedy recovery. 
KARL— Got pless t'em. 

CONSTANCE — (carrying the small table back to its 
place in the alcove) Aren't you tired after having so much 
company ? 

KARL — Yes; vat time iss it? 
CONSTANCE— Has your watch stopped? 
KARL — It fell on t'e floor ant proke. 
CONSTANCE— Ah. 
KARL— I gafe it to Tony. 

CONSTANCE— And he will have it all fixed up. Well, 
its almost bedtime. See. (She holds her hand under his 
light that he might use the watch on her wrist.) 
KARL — It is alvays pet-time vit me. 
CONSTANCE— That's true; I should have said sleep- 
time. I shall try to make you very comfortable so that you 
will have a good night's rest. 

(She removes the ice-water, glass tube and telephone from 
the windowsill, placing them on the white iron table 
with the roses. She unfolds the screen before the win- 
dow. Then she walks around the foot of the bed to 
the little cabinet, takes the metal pitcher from it and 
carries it into the bathroom. She turns on the lamp in 
the bathroom; a patch of light falls on the wall in Karl's 
room. One can hear the water running from the faucet 
into the pitcher. She returns with the pitcher and with 



64 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

washcloth, soap and towel, placing them on the cabinet 
and drawing the cabinet closer to the bed. She pours 
some water into the bowl and, standing on the near side 
of the bed, washes and dries his face and hands in 
silence.) 

CONSTANCE— Does that feel better now, Mr. Linden- 
fels? 

KARL— Much petter ; t'ank you. 

CONSTANCE — Isn't your iback tired and hot from lying 
so long? 

KARL — Yes ; it iss. 

CONSTANCE — I shall rub it with alcohol to harden and 
cool the skin. 

(She carefully removes his left arm from the coat of his 
pajamas and then helps him to turn over slowly on his 
right side. The light from the reading-lamp shines down 
on his bare frail back. She takes a bottle from the inside 
of the cabinet, pours some of the contents into the palm 
of her hand and rubs well his shoulders and his spine. 
She smooths the wrinkles out of the sheet and helps 
him place his arm back in the sleeve.) 

CONSTANCE— Now turn slowly. (He does so.) It's 
much cooler this evening. Shall I put the blanket on? 

KARL— Pleace. 

(She walks to the dresser and gets the blanket from the 
drawer; she also brings the thermometer with her. She 
places the latter under his tongue. Then she turns 
back the counterpane, straightens out the upper sheet, 
puts on the blanket and spreads the counterpane over 
it. She takes his pulse, then removes the thermometer 
from his mouth, observing the reading.) 

CONSTANCE — (walking to the dresser to record her 
observation) Your pulse and temperature are normal to- 
night. (She returns to the bed.) Shall I remove the extra 
pillow ? 

KARL— Pleace. 

(As usual she places her arm behind his neck, lifts his 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 65 

head, removes both pillows, lowers his head gently, 
shakes one of the pillows and places it under his head 
again.) 
KARL— Tank you. 

CONSTANCE — (carrying the extra pillow to the dresser 
drawer) You ought to sleep well tonight. Doctor Caldwell 
will be here any moment with the capsules. 

(She moves the cabinet back to its correct position against 

the wall, pulls the cot out from under the bed so that 

it is separated from it by a distance of about two feet. 

She turns back the white counterpane on the cot, then 

walks to the dresser, takes the chart and a pencil, returns 

to the cot and places them under her pillow.) 

CONSTANCE — You see, Mr. Lindenfels, I am prepared 

to record what you say in your sleep. (There is a rap on 

the door.) Come in. 

(Caldwell enters with his medicine case.) 
CALDWELL — Well, how is my patient tonight? 
CONSTANCE — He is ready to take the capsules, Doctor. 
I shall get him a glass of hot milk, — and while I am out I 
might as well get you a pitcher of fresh water, Mr. Linden- 
fels. (She goes to the far side of the bed to get the glass 
pitcher from the table.) Is your ice-cap still cold ? 
KARL— No. 

CONSTANCE— I'll refill that also. (She reaches for the 
cap under the covers, removes the cloth which is wrapped 
about it, places the cloth on the foot of the bed and then 
leaves with the cap and the pitcher.) 

KARL— V'y iss it I ton't shleep, Toctor ? 
CALDWELL — (sitting down amicably on the side of the 
cot nearest the bed) I suppose it's due to the general shock 
which the operation has given to your whole system. 
KARL — You are certain it iss tue to t'at ? 
CALDWELL — I don't know what else it could be unless 
you are worrying about being drafted into the army. To- 
morrow is Registration Day, you know. 

KARL — To tell you t'e trut', Toctor, I hat forgotten all 



66 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

apout t'e war. Are you going to enlist ? 

CALDWELL — I have already registered with The Red 
Cross. 

KARL — I supposse t'ey vill neet lots of physicians, putt 
t'ey surely cou'tn't giff each vountet soltier ass much atten- 
tion ass you are giffing me ? 

CALDWELL — I suppose most attention is given where 
there is chance of a speedy recovery. If a soldier has re- 
ceived a very large and serious injury, he would be of no 
further use as a fighter. 

KARL— Ant vat vou't t'ey to vit him? 

CALDWELL — It's a question. Unless he had a close 
friend to hunt him out, he might be left behind to die. 

KARL — T'at issn't a fery pleasant t'ought — iss it? — unless 
vone peliefs in life after te'th. I supposse you t'ink it non- 
sense to pelief t'at, Toctor ? 

CALDWELL — I could never believe it, Lindenfels, even 
if I wanted to. Of course a man's influence on others often 
lives after the man himself has died, and they will continue 
to think and speak of him as though he were still alive ; but 
as to the man's own consciousness as to what the living are 
still saying and doing — that is all bosh. Now understand 
that while this is my view I have no desire to impose it on 
others. If, for example, it makes a mother happier to believe 
that her son, killed outright in battle and buried in France, 
is still living, breathing, walking, clasping her hand, why 
should any one try to dispel the illusion and make her miser- 
able by preaching that the boy is teetotally dead — dead as 
a door nail — gone forever and forever. Amen. 

KARL — I use't to t'ink so too, Toctor; but now I t'ink 
tifferently. 

CALDWELL — Maybe you would like to convert me? 

KARL — Veil, you see ven I hat my acute attack of ap- 
penticitus, t'e effect vas t'e same ass t'ough I hat peen shtruck 
vit a shell. (He snaps his fingers.) T'at quick eferyt'ing 
grew plack pefore me, ant I fell town like te't. Ant titn't 
I remain unconscious? Vasn't I ass goot ass te't vile I 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 67 

vas unter t'e influence off et'er? Ant, my Got, haff I not 
vaken't up into a new life t'at iss certainly he'fenly compar't 
to the vone I vas liffing on eart' ? 

CALDWELL — But to be under the influence of the 
anesthetic is not the unconsciousness of death. Your heart 
continues to beat and you still breathe. In other words, you 
are still alive. 

KARL — Yes; putt it iss tifferent from ortinary life. 

CALDWELL — It is the same as the unconsciousness of 
sleep. 

KARL — No, Toctor ; it iss f ery tifferent from shleep : 
Ven I am ashleep I vake up tamn quick if somevone shticks 
a knife in my pelly. 

CALDWELL — That's true ; it is different from sleep. 

KARL — I tell you it iss a shtate petween t'e life vich 
preceets te'th ant t'e life vich follows it. It is like t'e vone 
pecausse my heart shtill peats, ant it iss like t'e ot'er pecausse 
it iss impossiple to causse me any physical pain eefen t'ough 
you cut me to pieces. 

CALDWELL— Yes ; that's true. Go on. 

KARL — Now you say t'at ven a man iss te't, he tuss not 
hear vat ot'ers are saying apout him. 

CALDWELL — No ; of course not. He is deprived of all 
his senses — not only feeling. 

KARL — Yet ven I vas in t'at te't contition — te't in t'at I 
cou't feel no physical pain — I he'rt some t'ings I vas not 
supposse't to hear. 

CALDWELL — Impossible. What did you hear? See if 
I can verify it. I remember everything that was said over 
the operating table. 

KARL — I ton't recall just vat I he'rt; I just recall harring 
he'rt somet'ng. I recall hafring he'rt your foice, alt'ough I 
cou't not see you. 

CALDWELL — You just imagine now that you actually 
heard me then. 

KARL — Later I may pe aple to tell you not t'e exact 
vorts putt t'e t'ing you vere talking apout. T'en you vill 



68 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

pelief me. But t'ere's anot'er t'ing, Toctor : Now t'at I am 
out of t'e anest'etic, my life iss more like life after te'th t'an 
life pefore te'th. 

CALDWELL— In what way? 

KARL — I am shtill lifting alt'ough I haff lost a part off 
my poty — my appentix. Issn't t'at t'e peginning of shpirit- 
uality? 

CALDWELL — The appendix is not important; it has no 
office whatever. 

KARL — T'at may pe true enough, putt it iss a first shtep ; 
ant you know t'at a man can lifT ven more important organs 
t'an his appentix are remoof't? 

CALDWELL — Yes ; he can live without teeth, without 
eyes, with only a part of his intestines, with only one lung 
or one kidney ; and he can live without his sexual organs. 

KARL — Vitout hiss sexual orkans ? Issn't t'at vonterf ul ? 

CALDWELL — But you must not forget that it is a 
most abnormal, unsatisfactory, miserable way of living; and 
you must remember that there are limitations here also ; 
there are certain organs without which one cannot even live 
abnormally and miserably — without which one must in- 
evitably die. 

KARL — I am not so shure off t'at, Toctor. Ass a result 
my own exshperience ant off vat you haff tolt me, I pelief 
t'e tay vill come ven I can t'row avay efery part of t'is whole 
peastly, tissipatet ant tiseas't poty off mine ant shtill liff — 
liff vitout t'inking off tisease — liff vitout t'inking off sex — 
liff in shpirit alone. By Got, Toctor, I pelief it vit all my 
heart ant soul. 

CALDWELL— With all your heart? (He laughs.) You 
still need your heart in order to believe it. Well, Linden- 
fels, if you care to think in that way, I won't encourage you 
any more than I would encourage that unfortunate mother 
to think otherwise. 

KARL — Tell me, Toctor ; are you ass happy now ass 
you efer exshpect to pe? 

CALDWELL — I can't say that I am ; but I hope to reach. 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 69 

that state before and not after death. 

KARL— Ven? 

CALDWELL — When I am a married man. 

KARL — You mean to infer t'at marritch vill pring you a 
pleasure vich you haff nefer pefore exshperienced ? 

CALDWELL— Exactly, Mr. Lindenfels. 

KARL — You are vone in a t'ousant! 

CALDWELL — My religion is morality. I don't see why 
any one should desire life after death unless one has made a 
botch of the life which precedes it. An immoral, diseased 
man, for example, may want a second chance to live right- 
eously without a body after he has discovered that he can't 
do so and still possess one. But to a moral man, the temp- 
tations of the flesh enrich existence : for the sorrow through 
resistance and the joy in anticipation are the very elements 
that make his life sweet. To have an untainted body and 
to know that the functions of its organs shall ultimately be 
purely and properly discharged in union with another— this, 
to me, is the acme of happiness. I desire no further happi- 
ness in anything so chimerical as the spirit. 

KARL — Off course you vill vant no ot'er man to haff 
luff't your vife pefore you marry her? 

CALDWELL— Love her in the flesh? Decidedly not, 
Mr. Lindenfels. 

KARL — Putt in shpirit? 

CALDWELL — Just what do you mean by that? 

KARL — Veil ; supposse your vife vou't tie. Vou't you 
shtill opject to anot'er man luffing her t'en? 

CALDWELL — How could I? If by loving a woman 
you mean simply thinking how lovely she is, well — how 
could any one prevent that in any man and why would any 
one want to prevent it — in particular, if the woman were 
dead — when divorce would no longer be possible? 

KARL — If you t'ink it iss impossiple to tiforce t'e shpirit 
off a voman from t'e poty off a man, t'en surely it iss more 
impossiple to tiforce two shpirits — t'e shpirit off a voman 
from t'e shpirit off t'e man who luffs it. I am assuming now 



70 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

t'at t'e man who luffs your vife iss, ass you say, also t'et. 

CALDWELL — (rising) Lindenfels, to me this is all torn- 
myrot and insanity, but let me tell you for a third time that 
I will discourage no man from the belief that Spirituality is 
The Great Reliever. If a man who hasn't found the right 
mate in the flesh is relieved by the belief that he shall do so 
in the spirit, — whatever that may mean, — I am perfectly 
willing to let him believe so — even if he has an eye on the 
spirit of the woman who is to become my own wife. 

KARL — You vill shake hants on t'at, Toctor? 

CALDWELL — (reaching for Karl's extended hand and 
pressing it firmly) Yes, if it will help to make you feel better. 
(then anxious to change the subject of conversation) What 
wonderful roses you ha\e over there! 

KARL — Yes; I must tell you apout t'ose roses, Toctor. 
Ven I came out off t'e anest'etic t'e first t'ing I saw vas. . . 

(Constance enters.) 

CALDWELL — Now let me see ; you wanted something 
to make you sleep tonight ; didn't you ? 

KARL— Yes, Toctor. 

CALDWELL— Well, I shall leave two capsules with Miss 
Wakefield. 

(Constance places the ice-cap, the hot milk and the ice- 
water on the dresser to take the medicine which the doc- 
tor holds out as he approaches her.) 

CALDWELL— May I see Mr. Lindenfels's chart? 

CONSTANCE — (first glancing over the articles on the 
dresser) Oh yes ; I had forgotten. I have placed it under 
my pillow. (She walks to the cot to get it.) 

CALDWELL — That's a new place for it. 

CONSTANCE— Well you see, Doctor, Mr. Lindenfels is 
accustomed to talking in his sleep, and he asked me to record 
what he might say tonight. I thought I would keep the 
chart handy and write on the back of it. 

CALDWELL— Oh, I understand. 

(She hands him the chart. He sits under the light near 
the door to read it. She carries the capsules and the 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 71 

hot milk to the far side of the bed, holds up her patient's 
head with her left arm, as usual, and gives him the medi- 
cine. Caldwell, although pretending to read, watches 
her. She returns to the dresser for the ice-cap and the 
water-pitcher to find him still reading the chart with 
unusual interest, it seems. She walks back to the bed, 
places the water on the table, wraps the cloth about the 
ice-cap and places it over her patient's incision.) 

CONSTANCE — Will you have a sip of cool water, Mr. 
Lindenfels? 

KARL— Pleace. 

(She pours out some water and gives it to him through the 
tube. Caldwell rises and approaches the bed to hand her 
the chart.) 

CALDWELL— Good night. 

KARL— Goot night, Toctor. 

(Caldwell turns about and walks slowly to the door. Con- 
stance places the chart under her pillow. He passes out 
into the hall, closing the door very slowly and reluc- 
tantly behind him. She extinguishes the bracket-lamp 
at the dresser, returns to the bed, takes the towel, cloth 
and bowl from the cabinet into the bathroom, closing 
the door behind her and thus causing the patch of light 
to disappear on the wall. 

A short silence. 

Karl extinguishes the reading-lamp on his bed by pulling 
the small chain. Aside from the moon shining faintly 
through the windows, the room is now very dark. An- 
other silence. The clock in the church-steeple announces 
the hour slowly : nine strokes with seemingly long inter- 
vals between them. Another silence. The curtains sway 
back and forth in the moonlight and the breeze, which 
blows in through the windows bearing the strains of 
Schumann's "W arum?" from the piano across the street. 

The song without words ends. Another silence. The 
drinking tube falls to the tile floor. Another silence. 
The chain of the lamp over the bed is pulled to the first 



72 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

notch, producing an almost imperceptible glow on the 
counterpane ; in a short while it is extinguished again. 
The lamp is one which is capable of emitting four dif- 
ferent intensities of light. The chain is pulled again to 
the first notch. Pause. Then to the second notch. 
Pause. Then the light is completely extinguished again. 
Pause. First notch. Pause. Second notch. Pause. 
Third notch. Then complete extinction. Pause. First 
notch. Pause. Second notch. Pause. Third notch. 
Pause. Fourth notch. Linden f els is then plainly visible, 
as is also Constance, who lies sleeping on the cot in a 
dark blue kimono, partly covered by the counterpane. 
Her face is turned away from the bed. He turns over 
slowly and carefully on his right side and reaches out 
his arms to her in silence. Then he turns back again 
and extinguishes the lamp. 

There is another silence.) 

KARL— (softly) Miss Vakefielt. 

(No response.) 

KARL — (not quite so softly as before) Miss Vakefielt. 

(No response.) 

KARL — (very distinctly) Miss Vakefielt. 

CONSTANCE— (sleepily) Yes, Mr. Linclenfels. 

(One can hear her rising from the cot. She lights the 
lamp over his bed. He continues to call, his eyes closed. 
She decides he is talking in his sleep. She gets the chart 
from under her pillow, prepares to write as she sits on 
the edge of the cot with a braid of hair hanging down 
either side of her neck.) 

KARL— Miss Vakefiek. I— I— I— vant— I vant to tell 
you — t'at — t'at you naff chainch't t'e course off my life — 
chainch't it from eefil to goot — ant I vish you to know t'at I — 
I — luff you. (The curtain is descending slowly.) I luff 
you for toing it — luff you — luff you vit all my soul. 



ACT III 



ACT III. 

SCENE — The same as in Act I. 

The next morning ; bright, sunshiny; about 10 :30. 

The vase on the dresser which contained the peonies is 
empty. The pink roses, somewhat faded and wilted, 
are still on the table beside the bed. The screen has 
been removed from the smaller window, and the baskets 
of fruit and boxes of candy and cigars have all been 
placed on the window-sill near the patient. 

Lindenfels has had his bath and his shave and is, as usual, 
lying in bed. 

Constance, as usual, is knitting as she sits in the Mor- 
ris chair. 

KARL — Miss Vakefielt, vat iss it you are alvays knitting? 

CONSTANCE— Socks, Mr. Lindenfels. 

KARL — Putt such he'fy voolen-looking vones! 

CONSTANCE— Well, fancy silk ones wouldn't last if a 
soldier had to march in them all day long. 

KARL — Oh, you are knitting socks for soldiers? 

CONSTANCE— Yes ; didn't you hear the church bells 
ringing and the cannons booming this morning? 

KARL — Toctor Caltvell remintet me last night t'at t'is 
vas Registration Tay. He t'ought t'at vas t'e reasson v'y 
I vas not aple to shleep ; he t'ought I vas af rait to go to t'e 
front ant tie, Miss Vakefielt. Putt ven I t'ink off t'e tissolute 
life I haff let, I t'ink t'e pattlefielt vou't pe a fine place to ent 
it — ant shtart a new vone. I vou't not haff to tisgrace my 
name py committing suicite ; I vou't honor it py tying like a 
hero, and I vou't also pe making a hero off t'e man who 
vou't shoot me. No, Miss Vakefielt, I vou'tn't vant to kill 
any vone putt I vou'tn't mint in t'e least if somevone vou't 
kill me — or if I shou't kill myself. I am not a cowart; I 
am not af rait to tie like some men. No ; it iss not t'e t'ought 



76 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

off tying t'at keeps me from shleeping. 

CONSTANCE — That keeps you from sleeping? Why 
you slept very soundly last night; you even snored a little. 

KARL — Tit my shnoring vaken you ? I am so sorry. Putt 
are you shure I vas shnoring? Perhaps I vas talking in my 
shleep. 

CONSTANCE — No; you didn't speak a word in your 
sleep all night long. 

KARL— Honestly, Miss Vakefielt ; titn't I ? 

CONSTANCE— No, Mr. Lindenfels— none that I heard. 

KARL — (thoughtlessly) I t'ought I saw you get up vonce 
ant write somet'ing on t'e chart ? 

CONSTANCE — And the fact that you saw me proves 
that you were awake at the time. You asked me to record 
what you said in your sleep — not what you said while you 
were awake. 

(Karl is silent; Constance continues to knit.) 

KARL — T'en you t'ink I am not sincere ; you t'ink my 
intention in toing t'is vas a pase vone. 

CONSTANCE — Whatever it was, you hadn't the courage 
to tell me openly. 

KARL — I know I hatn't. How cou't any man vit a past 
like mine haff t'e courritch to look into eyes ass pure ass 
yours ant tell you t'at he luff't you. Putt now t'at I haff 
tolt you t'at vit half-close't eyes, it iss easier to repeat it vit 
open't vones. (emphatically) Ant vet'er you pelief me or 
not, I to atore you, Miss Vakefielt — I luff you vit all my 
soul for t'e kintness you haff shown tovart me. I supposse 
you vill shtill t'ink t'at I am lying ; you vill t'ink my interest 
in you iss no teeper t'an my interest in t'e paintet freaks who 
haff sent me t'eir pitter sveets. You t'ink it vou't pe impos- 
siple for me efer to pecome cleanly attach't to a voman. 
Veil, you are right, I supposse ; toctors and nurses ought to 
know. But it iss pecause I haff nefer known a pure, un- 
selfish voman like yourself. Putt now I know tifferent, for 
I haff exshperience't for t'e first time not t'e momentary 
pleasure putt t'e lasting happiness a man may fint in t'e com- 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 77 

panionship off a true soul — not t'e excitement putt t'e 
peace ant comfort she may pring him. (with emotion) You 
haff chainch't my whole life, Miss Vakefielt ; you naff help't 
me to fint my petter self. 

(Constance continues to knit.) 

KARL— Miss Vakefielt. 

CONSTANCE— Yes, Mr. Lindenfels. 

KARL — Pleace pring me a hantkerchief from t'e tresser. 

(She leaves her knitting on the chair, walks to the dresser, 
obtains the handkerchief from a drawer and goes to the 
far side of the bed to give it to him.) 

KARL — To you pelief me now, Miss Vakefielt, or to you 
shtill t'ink I am lying to you ass you t'ought last night ? 

CONSTANCE— I believe you, Mr. Lindenfels, and I am 
glad you have been converted. 

KARL — (placing the handkerchief to his eyes) You vill 
excusse me if I veep a little ; I can't help it — I can't help it. 
I feel so much petter. You are not aple to realize vat a crate 
torture it hass peen to lie here tay ant night vit you so near, 
my eyes afrait to meet yours, my lips afrait to moof for fear 
I might refeal vat my soul vas crafing to exshpress ant for 
fear you vou't mishtake t'e exshpression off my cratitute for 
t'e exshpression off a cheap tesire. T'e agony off such a 
situation vas more painful t'an t'is vount in my site. You 
von't pelief vat a purten hass peen liftet from my mint — 
now t'at you unterstant. 

CONSTANCE — (returning- to the Morris chair) I am 
glad you feel relieved, Mr. Lindenfels ; I am very glad. 

KARL — T'ank you. Putt I vant you to feel relief't also. 
Miss Vakefielt, for I pelief you are also carrying a secret in 
your heart. (Constance, about to sit down, remains standing 
on these words.) Hass not your minute care off me inti- 
catet t'at you also t'ink somet'ing off me? 

CONSTANCE — (taking up her needles and knitting as 
she stands, her back turned) I have always given similar aid 
and attention to all my patients, Mr. Lindenfels. I am always 
happy to bring relief to any one. I would treat all men with 



78 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

the same kindness and gentleness with which I would handle 
my own brothers if they were wounded in battle. 

KARL — T'en t'ere iss no ot'er meaning in t'e comfort 
you naff affortet me? 

CONSTANCE — No other meaning than there will be in 
the comfort which these socks will afford some soldier whom 
I shall never know and who will never know me. 

KARL — Ant you haff felt not a trifle tifferent tovart me 
t'an you haff felt tovart t'e many you haff nurs't in t'e past? 

CONSTANCE— I shall frankly say that I have never 
before nursed a man who has helped so to reduce the un- 
pleasant part of my work to a minimum or who has treated 
me with quite so much respect. 

KARL— I t'ank you, Miss Vakefielt. I haff alvays felt 
t'at it vas vit reluctance t'at you bathe't me; I haff alvays 
t'ought you vere t'inking t'en off my immoral relations vit 
unclean vimmen. Haff I peen right in t'inking so ? 

CONSTANCE — (reluctantly) Sometimes, perhaps. 

KARL — Are you repell't eefen py t'e touch off my hant? 

CONSTANCE — (dropping her knitting on the chair and 
walking to the near side of the bed) Why of course not, Mr. 
Lindenfels. (He holds out his hand, and she takes it.) 

KARL — I tesire no closer contact t'an t'is vit any pure vo- 
man ; sexual luff vou't eefen pe repugnant to me since I haff 
so tefile't ant apuse't it. Putt t'ere can pe happiness vitout 
t'at; can t'ere not, Miss Vakefielt? (She does not answer 
but turns her head away.) Perhaps I am shpeaking too 
plainly. You vill excusse me. (He drops her hand.) 

CONSTANCE — (returning slowly to the chair) There 
should be no embarrassment in speaking plainly — if one 
also speaks properly. 

KARL — I vou't not pe shpeaking off t'is at all, Miss 
Vakefielt — not eefen properly, hat you not vonce sait some- 
t'ing apout it to me. 

CONSTANCE— (knitting more rapidly than usual) 
When, Mr. Lindenfels? 

KARL — Oh, it vasn't in your shleep. You ton't talk in 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 79 

your shleep like I to. Putt it vas in my shleep t'at you sait 
it — ven I vas not supposse't to hear it, ant I tit not hear it 
tistinctly, putt t'e sense off it now comes pack to me : it 
vas somet'ing apout sexual starfation — t'at you exsh- 
perience't it sometimes. Tit you not say fat vile I vas shtill 
unter t'e anest'etic from t'e operating room ? 

CONSTANCE — (dropping her needles into the chair) 
I believe I did, Mr. Lindenfels. 

KARL — Ant you vere saying it to me? 

CONSTANCE — (approaching the bed again) To any one 
who cared to hear it, Mr. Lindenfels, and even now, when 
you are wide awake, I will say that I see nothing shameful 
in purified sexual love ; I do not wish to hide my desire for 
it. It is a desire to be controlled rather than concealed. I 
believe that the purified and cultured intercourse of the sexes 
is a thing that would uplift men and women rather than 
degrade them. 

KARL — Oh, it must pe a vonterful t'ing ven it uplifts ! 
To pegin life all of er again vit a voman off your fiews ! 
(He extends his hand again; she takes it tenderly.) Putt I 
must not t'ink off such t'ings ant, t'ank Got, it iss fery easy 
for me to forget t'em. Putt it iss for your sake — for your 
sake only — for vone who iss starfing — t'at I vish in Got's 
name t'at I vere ass clean ass I vonce use't to pe. 

CONSTANCE— (still holding his hand) Mr. Lindenfels, 
between us, under no conditions whatever, could there be 
anything more than the love of brother and sister. A love 
beyond that is not mine to accept from any other than him 
to whom I am betrothed. 

KARL — (gradually letting go of her hand) You are pe- 
trot! You haff promis't yourself to anot'er? 

CONSTANCE— Yes. 

KARL — (sadly) T'en I shall alvays pe lonely. 

CONSTANCE — You can return to your art; a great 
artist must be much alone. Miss Le Grand believes your 
operation will exempt you from being drafted, and therefore 
your genius, your visions, your ideas and inspirations will 



80 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

not perish on the field of battle. 

KARL — T'e fisions ant iteas vich she hass in mint haff al- 
re'ty perish't. In a sense I haff peen vountet ; it seems ass 
t'ough mortal life ant tesire haff peen ripp't from my poty. 

CONSTANCE — (bringing the chair from the alcove to 
his bedside and seating herself) You have been reborn — re- 
born with a newer, nobler desire. In a few weeks you will 
be up and strong again — mentally strong. The ether has 
purged your mind, and though you may not be able to fight 
with gun and sword, you will be able to fight valiantly with 
your pen, sending a great message to the people of the world 
through your music — not the old music but the new. 

KARL — T'e new musik ! You tolt me yestertay, Miss 
Vakefielt, t'at art vich tuss not exshpress vat iss pe'utiful iss 
merely t'e tictaitions off a tiseas't mint. It iss my poty t'at 
hass tiseas't my mint ; my musik hass peen passionate rup- 
pish. How can I write t'e new musik ass long ass I haff a 
poty vich vill nefer pe clean again. 

CONSTANCE — By transforming the old passion into a 
new and higher one. It was Ruskin, I believe, who said that 
true music is (the natural expression of a lofty passion for a 
right cause. 

KARL — Ruskin vas an Inklishman. 

CONSTANCE — Yes; one of my own countrymen. 

KARL— Oh! you are Inklish, Miss Vakefielt? 

CONSTANCE— Yes, Mr. Lindenfels. 

KARL — Veil t'e fact t'at I am Cherman means t'at my 
musik vill pe curs't in Amerika. 

CONSTANCE— Miss Le Grand and the boy who de- 
livered your flowers told me your music is very popular. 

KARL — Yes ; my trash ant passionate ruppish iss popu- 
lar, putt I mean my serious musik vou't pe curs't py t'ose 
Amerikans who really know vat musik iss. 

CONSTANCE— No; to be of German descent is a great 
advantage to a musician ; after all, the real music of the world 
has been handed down to us from Germany. Of course we 
have rightly despised and will continue to despise some Ger- 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 81 

man music — that of Wagner and Strauss which expresses 
a low — not a lofty — passion, and which is symbolic of war 
and domination and licentiousness; but we always have 
loved and always will love Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Mozart, 
Schumann, Schubert, Handel, Haydn and Brahms — heroes 
who fought for something higher than world-supremacy 
but gained the latter in doing so — heroes who fought for 
the same thing that England, France, Russia and America 
and even Germany herself, though unknowingly, are fight- 
ing for today : harmony and peace. 

KARL — You seem to know so much apout musik — apout 
goot musik, Miss Vakefielt. Can you sing t'ese Cherman 
songs you mention? 

CONSTANCE— I studied them until my mother died, 
and then, at her request, I became a nurse. 

KARL — (dreaming) I haff just peen t'inking how vonter- 
f ul it vou't naff peen hat I known you ven you vere a singer, 
and yet if you hat not pecome a nurse I vou't nefer haff 
known you at all. Fate iss a queer t'ing. 

CONSTANCE — Music and nursing have much in com- 
mon. 

KARL — Yes ; I haff exshperience't how t'e musik of t'e 
crate masters can pring peace ant relief to a suffering soul. 

CONSTANCE — And it was because the great masters 
suffered and fought that they were able to write such master- 
pieces; those masterpieces grew out of their sorrows. That 
is why their songs without words console us. 

KARL — Mendelssohn's ''Consolation." 

CONSTANCE— And Schumann's "Warum?" He wrote 
it to console himself but he has consoled thousands of others 
by doing so. 

KARL — Ant you vish me likevise to console myself pe- 
causse I haff peen tenite your luff — console myself py writing 
musik. You t'ink my art vill haff peen purifite py haffing 
pass't t'rough so crate a sorrow. You vant me to fight for 
consolation ant peace using musik ass a ve'pon. I unter- 
shtant ; I untershtant. 



82 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

CONSTANCE — (rising and carrying the small chair back 
to the alcove) I am so glad you understand, Mr. Lindenfels. 
We shall often think of each other 'because we shall be doing 
the same work : you bringing relief to wounded souls, I to 
wounded bodies — to the bodies of those who have fought for 
the same peace toward which you will be striving. 

KARL — You mean you are going to t'e front vit T'e Ret 
Cross ? 

CONSTANCE— Yes. 

KARL — Toctor Caltvell tolt me he vas also going. 

CONSTANCE— Oh! did he? 

KARL — You are going toget'er — perhaps? 

CONSTANCE— Yes. 

KARL — Maype it iss to Toctor Caltvell t'at you are 
petrot ? 

CONSTANCE — (taking up her needles and yarn from 
the Morris chair, and knitting as she sits on the arm) Yes, 
Mr. Lindenfels. 

KARL — Veil t'at makes me fery happy, Miss Vakefielt, 
for two reassons. Vone iss pecausse Toctor Caltvell iss such 
a fine clean man. He tolt me he vas clean, ant I also he'rt 
him tell you. I he'rt him tell you many t'ings just pefore I 
came out of t'e anest'etic. Last night I tolt him t'at I 
he'rt hiss foice at t'at time, ant he vas fery anxious to know 
vat it vas he sait. I tolt him I vou't tell him some time later 
ven I vas more certain. It vas all fery fague t'en ; putt 
it iss fery clear now. Tell him for me t'at it iss true t'at 
ven vone iss supposse't to pe sort off te't, vone iss somevat 
conscious off vat iss happening on eart'. Perhaps ven vone 
iss altoget'er te't, vone vill not only know exactly putt vill 
eef en know more off vat iss happening on eart' t'an t'ose who 
are shtill lifting in t'e flesh are capaple off knowing. 

CONSTANCE— Very well, Mr. Lindenfels; I will tell 
him this for you. 

KARL — Putt t'e ot'er reasson v'y I am happy — t'e pigger 
reasson — iss t'at he vants you ass a mate only in t'e flesh ; he 
tolt me so — he tolt me so ! Your shpirit vill some tay be 



THE GREAT RELIEVER S3 

free. Free ! Ah, t'at makes me feel so happy. So happy ! 

(There is a short silence, during which Constance con- 
tinues to knit rather pensively.) 

KARL— Miss Vakefiek. 

CONSTANCE — (rising and leaving her knitting on the 
chair.) Yes, Mr. Lindenfels. 

KARL — You von't mint if I shleep a little now? 

CONSTANCE— No, Mr. Lindenfels. Your eyes are all 
swollen and red from weeping; I shall bathe them with cool 
water. 

(The strains of Schumann's "Warum?" come stealing 
softly through the window. Constance, standing on the 
far side of the bed, bathes his eyes with a small cloth, 
moistened with cool water. He falls asleep while she 
is doing so. She darkens the room by pulling all the 
shades down part way. 

Caldwell slowly and noiselessly opens the door and 
enters with a large cardboard box under his arm. She 
motions to him not to speak, placing her finger to her 
lips. While he is writing a card with his fountain-pen 
at the dresser, she fills the empty glass vase on the 
dresser with fresh water from the pitcher on the cabi- 
net, then opens the cardboard box, takes out a large 
fresh bouquet of pink roses and places it in the vase. 
She carries the flowers to the little white iron table. He 
tiptoes to the bed and hands her the card. She reads it 
in silence and smiles. She unfastens a piece of narrow 
ribbon from the handle of one of the fruit baskets on 
the sill and uses it to tie the card to the roses. Cald- 
well places his own hand gently and sympathetically on 
Karl's, as though saying good bye. Constance carries 
the vase of wilted roses and stagnant water to the bath- 
room. Caldwell tiptoes to the dresser, takes up the 
chart, turns it over and reads what Karl has said in his 
"sleep." Constance returns from the bathroom with a 
small satchel. She stops at the Morris chair, places her 
knitting in the satchel and then carries it to the door. 



84 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

Stealing up behind Caldwell, she places her arms around 
his waist and glances over his shoulder at the words she 
has written. He returns the chart to the dresser, walks 
to the door with his arm about her and picks up her 
satchel. They leave the room. 
The strains of "Warum?" continue mournfully. 
After the music ceases, Marianne LeGrand enters the 
room cautiously with Maurice Guilbert. She wears a 
long black silk cloak which completely conceals the 
costume beneath it; she carries a roll of manuscript 
under her arm. Guilbert is a statuesque man wearing 
a high black hat, a black cutaway coat and grey striped 
trousers, and carrying a cane with a gold knob. He is 
extremely handsome — a waxen complexion, large 
dreamy eyes and a long black mustache which he curls 
incessantly on the ends of his jeweled tapering fingers.) 
MARIANNE— (with her finger to her lips) Sh! (She 
goes to the bedside to assure herself that Karl is asleep; then 
she returns to Guilbert who has remained near the door curl- 
ing his mustache.) Good ! he is sound asleep, and she is 
out. It will work fine. It is for you, mon cher Maurice, 
zat I have planned all zis. Zink of zee money you would 
lose if zee production would fall zrough — if he (indicating 
Karl by a twirl of her head) would not finish zee opera. 

GUILBERT — I will not believe that he will not finish 
it — not until I hear it from Lindenfels himself. He has 
been writing operas for me for the last four years, and we 
have never had a quarrel or a failure ; we have become such 
good friends that contracts have become little more than 
red tape. 

MARIANNE — (drawing him by the arm into the alcove 
so that Karl may not see or hear them if he wakes) It is 
because zere has never been a woman to influence him until 
now. 

GUILBERT — Nonsense. Lindenfels has had affairs 
with scores of women ; he has lost his head over every good- 
looking girl I have ever engaged for the chorus. 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 85 

MARIANNE — Ah, Maurice, zey were fickle affaires; 
he enjoy wiz zee chorus girls zee sensual plasir which zee 
artist need to inflame and inspire him — but Monsieur Karl 
never loved zee girls — non, jamais. 

GUILBERT — (sitting astride the small chair and light- 
ing a cigarette) Just what do you mean by love, Marianne? 

MARIANNE — Ah, Maurice, if we were in true love, 
we would be perfectly worzless man and woman. (She 
perches herself on the window-sill.) Donnez-moi une ciga- 
rette. (He holds out his silver cigarette-case. She takes one, 
places it between her lips and bends over to light it fronts 
his. After taking a puff or two, she resumes her definition.) 
Love is not a zing zat excites one, zat spurs zee man on to 
zee great accomplishment. Non, non. Love quiets and 
kills ; it ruin zee art and zee artist's career. It is slobber — 
se conduire d'une maniere idiote — zat is what love is, Mau- 
rice. It is zee gentleness, zee tenderness, zee sweetness, zee 
softness — zee damn foolishness ! Zat is what love is. (She 
takes another puff of her cigarette.) Mademoiselle Wake- 
field — she has been oh so gentle wiz Monsieur Karl, so sweet 
and so tender — like zee mozer feeding zee baby from zee 
nipple or zee spoon. It is zat what has ruin Monsieur Karl. 
(She removes the ashes from her cigarette.) He is zinking 
of a home ; he speak to me of bedmaking and dishwashing, 
Maurice. I believe he want a baby to jump up and down 
on his knee — oh, zeze Germans ! zey can be just as senti- 
mental as zey are atrocious. How could Monsieur Karl 
compose musique wiz a nasty dirty baby squealing and 
squaking in his ears? Oh how I hate zese women who are 
nozing more zan breeders, who smozer zee artistic instinct in 
men wiz zeir slobber and who turn zee artist away from art 
to zee work ordinaire to earn money to feed zee slobbering 
infants ! I wish all zee slobbering mozers and babies would 
starve like zee mozers and babies in Belgium ; zen zee artists 
would have zeir freedom. 

GUILBERT — (crossing his arms on the back of the chair) 
You think Lindenfels wants to marry his nurse? 



86 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

MARIANNE — Cela va sans dire; j'en suis certain. He 
tell Tony, and Tony tell me. 

GUILBERT — Is she a pretty thing, Marianne? 

MARIANNE — Oui, Maurice — wiz soft white hands. 

GUILBERT — We should have got him an ugly nurse — 
one with warts on her nose. 

MARIANNE — But I never dreamed Monsieur Karl 
would fall in love ; I zought he was wise man. 

GUILBERT — Well, what are we going to do about it? 
(He rises and paces up and down the floor.) 

MARIANNE — (half closing her eyes) We can not do 
anyzing until we get Mademoiselle out of zee way. 

GUILBERT— Have her discharged? 

MARIANNE— Oui, Maurice. 

GUILBERT— For what reason? 

MARIANNE — For good raison — for raison zat will dis- 
grace her. 

GUILBERT — You don't wish to disgrace an innocent 
woman ? 

MARIANNE — Innocent! Ha ha ha . . Zee boy at 
zee flower-shop where I pay zee bill for zee flowers which 
I send to Monsieur Karl — zat boy tell me when he bring 
zee flowers here in zis room he not find Mademoiselle Wake- 
field on duty at all but in a position wiz Monsieur le doc- 
teur which make zee poor flower-boy blush ; and even before 
zee flower-boy come in zee room, he hear zem talk togezer 
of zee most wicked zings — zey even defend zee sinking of 
zee Lusitania. Ah, Maurice; zis Mademoiselle is not zee 
angel Monsieur Karl zink she is. 

GUILBERT — You are surely not going to believe every- 
thing that idiot of a boy has told you? 

MARIANNE — Ah, Maurice, I have seen too wiz my 
own eyes. I have seen her put arms around Monsieur Karl's 
neck — and zen when I am not here she give him nice bath 
and sleep zere on zee cot beside him here in zis room all 
night alone. She is wicked woman like zee rest of us; she 
only make him zink she is angel. Zere is no woman has so 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 87 

many opportunities as zee trained nurse. She can defend 
every affectionate act as belonging to her profession and, 
wiz her knowledge of prevention and such zings — ah, she can 
cover up all evidence, Maurice. 

GUILBERT — Now come, Marianne, don't invent any- 
thing nasty to say about her; wait until you are absolutely 
sure of the charge. 

MARIANNE — (jumping from the sill) Ah, mon cher 
Maurice, I will do anyzing — anyzing — anyzing at all to get 
her out of way so Monsieur Karl will finish zee opera for 
you — for you! It is for you zat I will do zee nasty zing — 
for you, mon cher Maurice. (She throws her arm about his 
neck, her cloak falling off part way and exposing her bare 
shoulder.) It is not zat I am jealous of Mademoiselle Wake- 
field. Non! Non! What care I for Monsieur Karl aside 
from his musique? He is a mere boy — a playzing zat has 
run down. You, Maurice, are a man — a big, strong, hand- 
some, satisfying man. It is for you zat I will do zee nasty 
zing. 

(He pats her bare shoulder, and then leaves her quickly, 
walking to the dresser where he chances to see the chart; 
he picks it up.) 

GUILBERT— (reading) "I want to tell you that you 
have changed the course of my life — changed it from evil 
to good ; and I wish you to know that I love you — love you 
for doing it- — love you with all my soul." 

MARIANNE — Yes ; zat is zee slobber zat Monsieur Karl 
write to his nurse. 

GUILBERT — This is not Lindenfels's hand-writing; I 
know that too well to be deceived. 

MARIANNE — Non? (She snatches the chart from his 
hand, glances at the writing and then turns it over.) It is 
like zee writing on zee ozer side of zee chart ; it must be 
Mademoiselle's writing. (She turns the chart over again 
and reads.) "I want to tell you zat you have changed zee 
course of my life — changed it from evil to good." (She 
muses.) From evil to good ; from evil — to good. Why, 



88 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

mon dher Maurice, she admits herself zat she was a bad 
woman : "from evil — to good." She was ashamed to speak it 
to Monsieur Karl's face ; she had to write it. I am glad she 
had to write it; Need I invent anyzing to say about her, 
Maurice? Is not zis evidence enough? Why has he changed 
zee course of her life? Because she tried to do evil wiz him 
like wiz Monsieur le docteur — ha ha ha ha ha — and he tell 
her no and give her a lecture on morality because he love 
her. Zink of it, mon cher Maurice : A trained nurse trying 
to ruin sick man ! Her own patient ! I will publish ziz — 
her own condemnation — in zee newspaper wiz a big red 
headline. I will go to zee hospital-office at once wiz zis 
note and have her discharged and disgraced. (She walks 
happily to the door, but turns suddenly before leaving the 
room.) While I am gone, mon cher Maurice, you can ar- 
range zee chorus girls around Monsieur Karl's bed; I will 
tell zem to come in quietly ; zey are waiting in zee sun-parlor. 
GUILBERT — Marianne, this is absurd; the hospital au- 
thorities will not permit singing here; it will disturb the 
patients. 

MARIANNE — Zee auzorities know nozing of it. Gwen- 
dolyn, Daisy, Maybelle — zey all have coats over zeir pretty 
costumes. Nobody know zey are chorus girls. Zee auzori- 
ties may stop zem from singing after zey once begin, — but 
after zey have sung a few bars of Monsieur Karl's musique, 
zat will be enough to wake him out of his crazy trance and 
bring him back to his opera. 

(She leaves the room, Guilbert walks to the bed and 
watches Karl as he sleeps peacefully on the pillow. The 
members of the chorus enter silently, one by one, each 
removing his or her cloak and dropping it on the floor 
at the door. Their costumes are spectacular, fantastic, 
grotesque, vivid in color and immodest and suggestive 
in design. There are both men and girls including 
Gwendolyn, Maybelle, Daisy, Violet and Carmen. They 
tiptoe noiselessly about the room as Guilbert arranges 
them with whispers and gestures in an effective group 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 89 

about the composer's bed. Herr Schmetterling, a rest- 
less conductor, round as a ball, his face puffy and scar- 
let, his handkerchief continually mopping it, stands on 
the Morris chair ready to flourish his baton. Tony 
stands beside him with his violin. 
Marianne returns and beckons to Guilbert, who approaches 

the door to meet her.) 
MARIANNE — (in a whisper) Zey tell me she has al- 
ready left zee hospital ; she was so wicked and ashamed zat 
she could not face any one, so she is going to sail for France 
wiz zee Red Cross. 

GUILBERT — Then you ought to be happy ; she has saved 
you a lot of dirty work. 

MARIANNE — Ah, I would have enjoyed see dirty work; 
I would have enjoyed seeing her disgraced. She will pollute 
all zee soldiers of my native country. Before she land in 
la belle France, I hope she get a German bullet zrough her 
heart. 

GUILBERT — Come ; Lindenfels may wake up before 
we start singing, and that would spoil the whole effect. 
(Marianne quickly discards her cloak, disclosing her sen- 
sational poppy-colored costume. She takes her place 
before the chorus and gives Herr Schmetterling the 
signal to begin. Tony sounds the key-note on his violin. 
Schmetterling lifts his arms and then begins to beat 
time comically. The chorus sing entirely off the key. 
Marianne trills and dances. Tony scratches his violin 
frantically. Guilbert raises the window shades to admit 
the sunlight in lieu of the calcium.) 
Karl awakens, and Marianne rushes to him.) 
MARIANNE — Ah, mon cher Karl — mon petit genie! 
It is your own beautiful musique zat has awake you from 
your trance to zee old existence ! 

KARL — Pe'utiful Musik? It iss rotten, rotten, rotten! 
It iss like so many howling togs ant squealing cats. (The 
members of the chorus mumble among themselves.) No 
more off it! Not ano'ter note! 



90 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

MARIANNE — It is because mon cher Karl is not con- 
ducting it himself. Herr Schmaeterlinck know not how to 
conduct it right ; n'est ce pas, Monsieur Schmaeterlinck ? 

SCHMETTERLING — (jumping from the Morris chair 
like a squirrel and approaching the bed in Small leaps) Ach, 
Herr Lindenf els, es geht nicht ; es geht nicht. Ohne dicli 
ist alles f reudenlos. Kein' Lebendigkeit ! 

KARL — (without restraint) Gen' mir weg, du kleine Ro- 
teriibe; halt's Maul! 

(The little conductor quickly makes his way, in small 
leaps, back to the Morris chair, where he perches on one 
arm with his feet on the seat, alternately shaking his 
head lento and mopping his face presto.) 

MARIANNE — It is not bad musique, mon cher Karl ; 
zee public will go crazy when zey hear it. 

KARL — To hear it iss enough to make any vone crazy ! 

MARIANNE — It is because it is not yet complet, mon 
cher Karl. I brought zee manuscript from your studio so 
zat you could finish it. 

KARL — (gruffly snatching the manuscript from her hand) 
Finish it ? Finish it ? T'is iss how I vill finish it ! (He 
tears it to pieces and tosses it into the air over his bed.) 

GUILBERT — (on the far side of the bed) But my dear 
Lindenfels, you are under contract to finsh this opera, and 
what is more : I have paid you an advance royalty. 

KARL — (sitting up in bed for the first time) Vat to I 
care for your contract or royalties? Vat meaning has con- 
tract and law to you ? (He points to Guilbert. ) To you who 
liffs so illegitimately wit her ! (He points to Marianne J 
Ta't poisonous serpent ! Ant ass for royalties — t'at money 
iss also poison, ant you shall hafr* it pack; I ton't vant it. 
I vill hart not'ing more to to vit men ant vimmen who naff 
no reshpect for purity; I vill haff not'ing more to to vit 
people who can't sing ant act ant tance ant play unless t'eir 
poties are inflame't vit trink ant passion. Ton't shpeak to 
me again apout my opera; it iss not'ing putt a fehicle for 
dishplaying immorality ant for amusing immoral people. It 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 91 

iss so much trash; it iss an unhe'lt'y, tegenerate t'ing — just 
like I vas pefore I avaken't to t'e new life from t'e life into 
vich t'is shnake off a voman charm't me. I mean you, 
Marianne ; I mean you ! 

MARIANNE — Ah, mon cher Karl, if it was not for 
Marianne, you would still be zee unknown artist, starving, 
dying. It was I who discover mon petit genie. 

KARL — Putt it vas not my petter self t'at you tiscovert. 
It vas your tamnaple magic t'at trans form't my petter self 
into a mere inshtrument to satisfy your filt'y tesires ant to 
hoist you to t'e top of t'e rotten latter off fame. You tit 
not lafish your money to tefelop my genius putt to proshti- 
tute it — to make it a trunken tiseas't organ to grint out un- 
musikal accompaniments for your peastly foice. No; it vas 
not my art you vanted to tefelop ant pring pefore t'e puplic; 
it vas t'rough my art t'at you vantet to pring yourself pefore 
t'e puplic; putt not pefore you twisted ant tiseas't my art, 
ant my poty also, to fit yourself, yourself, yourself ! You 
haff not tone t'at much (He snaps his fingers.) for me ; vat 
you haff tone hass peen all for Marianne Le Crant. You to 
not know vat it means to to anyt'ing for ot'ers ; your self iss 
your Got, ant a pollutet Got too. I vish I hat nefer seen 
your paintet, poisonous lips ant your lying, lustful eyes. I 
vish I hat peen left to shtruggle in poferty ant opscurity; 
t'en I might haff achief't somet'ing vorth vile. Perhaps it 
iss not too late to pegin all ofer again. T'at iss vat I vill 
try to to, ant I vill shtart py saying goot-pye to you ant to 
your Maurice ant all your miseraple associates who earn t'eir 
lining t'rough t'e contortions off t'eir foul poties — who to 
not eefen know t'at they haff a prain ant a soul. 

TONY — (stepping before the bewildered chorus and turn- 
ing his back to the bed) Ladies and gendlemen : Mista Carlo 
— he mad ; he knowa nod whad he say ; you musda nod listen ; 
he crazy (his finger to his forehead) in da nud; we musda 
waid — waid till he geda bedder; he now mucha sick — sick 
monkey. Sick monkey! 

KARL — (reaching for the box of cigars on the window- 



92 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

sill) Tony, it iss pecausse you are ass foul ant file as t'e rest 
off t'em t'at you are tefenting t'em. I nefer vant to see you 
again, Tony. Out off my sight! Here, take your rotten 
cigars vit you ! (He throws one handful of cigars after the 
other at the violinist. The men of the chorus pick them up 
from the floor, and then start to leave the room.) Out off 
my sight ! Out off my sight ! 

GWENDOLYN — (coming forward) You will not send 
your Gwendolyn away after she has sent you such a nice box- 
ful of kisses? 

MAYBELLE — (taking her position beside Gwendolyn) 
And you are not going to put me out when I sent you the 
nuts? 

DAISY — (stepping up beside Maybelle) And you ain't 
goin' to harm your little hellcat who sent you the damn 
pretty red cherries that growed on her lips? Mein Karl; 
Ish Hebe dish! 

CARMEN — (statuesque and singing her greeting in a 
deep contralto to the motif of the Habanera) Don Carlo, 
come back to Carmen who has sent you all the pears and 
plums. 

VIOLET — (in a squeaky voice) Dear Karl, little Violet 
thinks you look sweet enough to eat. 

(They are standing in a semicircle around his bed.) 

KARL — Out off my sight ! Out off my sight — all off you ! 
I haff hat enough off your canty ant your fruit ant your 
luff-making. I vish no more off it ; it vou't pe ass poisonous 
to my lips ass your looks are to my eyes ant your f oices to my 
ears. Here ; take it avay vit you. Pegone ! Pegone ! (He 
reaches for the boxes and baskets on the window-sill, and 
throws the candy and the fruit in their midst; they rush away 
screaming, leaving their capes and coats on the floor.) Out 
off my sight ! Pegone ! Fipers ! Sirens ! 

MARIANNE— II est f ou— f ou a Her ! 

(He throws several plums at her.) 

GUILBERT — We can do nothing with him until he is 
well again. 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 93 

(He fires a large orange at Guilbert's high black hat.) 
KARL — You, too — all of you — pegone ! Get out off my 
sight ! Fools ! Togs ! Cats ! Geese ! Shvine ! Hussies ! Prosh- 
titutes ! Liars ! Impeciles ! Itiots ! Asses ! Vine-pellies ! Get 
out ! Get out ! Out off my sight ! 

(He continues to rave and rant, tossing about madly on 
his bed, and hurling a handful of fruit at them with 
each exclamation of contempt. He does not cease until 
he has thrown everything he can lay hands on — his pil- 
low, his drinking-glass, his reading-lamp — until the last 
one of them has fled from the room. The he falls back 
on the bed exhausted; reaching nervously for the call- 
bell, he rings it frantically as though the building were 
in flames. 
After waiting a short time that seems like a century of 
agony to him, he sees Abigail Strong enter the room. 
She is a huge, awkward, homely, mannish woman in an 
ill-fitting nurse's uniform.) 
ABIGAIL— Good God! What's happened here? 
KARL — (gasping and writhing) I vant Miss Vakefielt! 
I vant Miss Vakefielt! 

ABIGAIL — Miss Wakefield has left the hospital, sir. 
KARL — Left so soon ? Left alre'ty ? 

ABIGAIL — Yes ; and I am to take you in charge from 
now on. It looks like a mighty big task, but I reckon I can 
manage it. (She pushes back her sleeves, takes a few steps 
forward, kicking the oranges and apples and coats out of 
her way as she does so, and strikes a pose, her hands on her 
hips.) My name is Strong. 

KARL — (breathing heavily) V'y titn't you come arount a 
little sooner? T'ere shou't haff peen a policeman here to trive 
t'ose itiots out. 

ABIGAIL — (taking two steps forward) A policeman ! 
KARL — Yes ; I trite to pe vone ass veil ass I cou't. 
ABIGAIL — You've been very disobedient, sir. Weren't 
you told to lie still ? You'll suffer for having done this ! 
(She walks authoritatively to the bedside, and points to the 



94 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

counterpane with her long finger.) Do you see that? 

KARL— Vat? 

ABIGAIL — The blood oozing through tine bedclothes ! 
You've broken the stitches and opened your wound — that's 
what you've done. And the Lord only knows what internal 
injuries have resulted! I shouldn't be surprised if you've 
tied your guts in a knot. I shall have to summon Doctor 
Caldwell at once. Lie still — lie absolutely still, until I re- 
turn. (She turns about and marches toward the door, 
kicking the boxes and fruit from right to left; she stops 
abruptly and looks back.) Don't move a particle, sir; don't 
even breathe. 

(She walks through the door colliding with a Clerk, who 
holds a pad in his left hand and a fountain-pen in his 
right.) 

CLERK — Pardon me. Is this Mr. Lindenfels's room? 

ABIGAIL — Yes; but it's in an awful shape, and so is he. 

CLERK — I must speak with him nevertheless. How old 
are you, Mr. Lindenfels? 

KARL — (moaning) Tventy-sefen. 

CLERK — Then you'll have to fill out one of these blanks 
for Conscription. 

ABIGAIL — He'll never be able to go to war; he'll be an 
invalid for the rest of 'his life. (She leaves the room.) 

CLERK — That makes no difference ; he must fill out his 
registration-card for the Government. (He walks to the 
bedside.) What is your name in full, sir? 

KARL — (groaning with pain) Karl Lindenfels. 

CLERK — (writing on the pad) And you said you were 
twenty-seven ? 

JKARL — Yes, sir; tventy-sefen. 

CLERK— Your address ? 

KARL — Charch Vashinkton Apartments. 

CLERK— And the date of your birth? 

KARL — Chune t'e fourteenth, (in pain) I can't t'ink off 
t'e year. 

CLERK — 1890 according to your age. Were you born 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 95 

in the United States? 

KARL — No; in Chermany, sir — at Dusseldorf. 

CLERK — Have you been naturalized ? 

KARL — Yes, I haft peen in Amerika for six years. 

CLERK — What is your present occupation? 

KARL — I am a composer, sir. 

CLERK — Have you a father or a mother solely depend- 
ent on you ? 

KARL — My parents are poth in t'e olt country. I ton't 
eefen know if t'ey are lifting. I haff not he'rt from t'em 
since — since — (He sobs.) 

CLERK — Are you married or single? 

KARL — I vish to Got I vere. 

CLERK— Which? 

KARL— Marrie't. 

CLERK — Then you wish to God you were single ? eh ? 

KARL — No ; my Got, can't you untershtant ? I am sinkle 
unfortunately. 

CLERK — I get you ; I understand. Any children under 
twelve to support? 

KARL — You are making a fool off me ; I tell you I am 
sinkle. 

CLERK — I know ; but unmarried men sometimes have 
children to support. 

KARL— Veil, I haff none t'at J know off. 

CLERK — No brother or sister under twelve to support? 

KARL — I haff vone brot'er in Chermany — olter t'an my- 
self. 

CLERK — Have you had any military experience? 

KARL — I serf't for vone year in t'e Cherman Infantry. 
I hatet it — hatet t'e vay I vas orter't apout like a tog, ant I 
tespise't t'e conceit of t'e officers. I hat alvays vanted to 
write musik — goot musik like Schumann ant Mendelssohn. 
My vat'er helt a very high commission in t'e Cherman Army ; 
he riticule't my musik ant sait t'at his sons must eit'er pecome 
officers or outcasts. T'e lack off freetom ant t'e shtrict tisci- 
pline ant tomination in army life ant home vas repugnant to 



96 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

my genius. I refoltet : in a moment off matness I shtole 
enough money from my mot'er's trunk; bought a ticket vit 
my brot'er's passport ant sail't to Amerika — to Amerika 
vere men are free — free ! If I hat met t'ere t'e right voman 
who vou't haff untershtoot t'e shpiritu'l appeal in true musik 
and in true luff, I vou't not pe sinkle ; I vou't haff marrie't 
ant vou't haff hat a crate career. Putt crowing veary of 
failure ant t'e lack off attention vich shou't haff inshpire't 
me to vork t'e harter to improof my art, I fell prey to para- 
sitic recognition ant cheap success vit all its false comforts 
ant tegrating luxshuries. Ant t'en came t'e reaction off t'e 
merciless oppression off militarism : I pecame too free ; vere 
t'ere shou't haff peen reassonaple restraint, t'ere vas only 
lawlessness ant licentiousness until — until — veil, you may 
lift up t'e petclo'es ant see for yourself. 

CLERK — Do you claim exemption from the draft in the 
United States ? 

KARL — (tossing about restlessly on the bed) No; for 
Got's sake, no ! Let me fight ! Let me fight vit all my heart 
ant soul ! Let me fight for Righteousness — for Righteous- 
ness Eferlasting! 

CLERK — Sign your name here, please. 
(The Clerk hands him the blank and the pen. The strains 
of "The Star Spangled Banner" burst suddenly and 
grandly through the open windows. A brass band, fol- 
lowed by American soldiers in khaki with Old Glory 
waving triumphantly above them, marches up the street. 
The Clerk walks to the large window and waves his 
handkerchief. Abigail Strong, returning unaccompanied 
by the doctor, dances awkwardly in tempo with the 
music to the window beside the bed, eagerly watching 
the parade and ignoring her patient.) 
ABIGAIL — (shouting) Doesn't Doctor Caldwell look 
stunning in a uniform? And just see how he's smiling! 
(Karl Lindenfels, writhing and groaning in agony, is trying 
to sign his name, the crimson blood spreading over the 
white counterpane.) 



ACT IV 



ACT IV. 

SCENE — The Roof Garden of the Hospital. 

A few weeks later. 

A row of four white pillars, equally spaced, extends from 
the left front of the stage to the back center. Between 
the two central pillars there are double doors through 
which one passes from the covered part of the roof 
(behind the pillars) to the uncovered part (before the 
pillars); these doors open out. Between the first and 
second pillars and between the third and fourth, there 
are double windows on hinges, the windows opening in. 
Before each window stands a box of plants with bril- 
liant vermilion blossoms. There are two awnings, 
striped in ultramarine -blue and white, one over each 
double window. The awnings are drawn halfway up, 
and the windows and doors are open to make the covered 
part of the roof as light and cool as possible. Through 
the windows one sees tables and chairs. An iron rail- 
ing extends from the farthest pillar to the right front 
of the stage, so that the part of the uncovered roof on 
the stage is triangular in shape. The roof however 
extends several feet beyond this railing. There are 
benches, plain chairs and rolling- chairs placed here and 
there on this triangular space. The view from the roof 
is characteristic of that seen from elevated places. Near 
by there are tree-tops and a church-steeple with a spire ; 
in the distance, along the horizon, there are silhouettes 
of tall office buildings, many of which are surmounted 
by the frameworks of gigantic electric signs. The 
western sky is aflame with a gorgeous sunset; above 
all there is an expanse of turquoise blue. 

Several of the chairs and benches are occupied by invalids, 
men, women and children, some with and some without 
uniformed nurses in attendance. 



100 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

In a roller-chair near the right front of the stage, sits a 
young woman wrapped in a white blanket from the 
waist down. Her face is pale and thin and sad, but her 
features strongly resemble those of Constance Wake- 
field. A young man in khaki sits on the bench beside her, 
holding her hand. In face and figure he reminds one 
very much of Harbison Caldwell. The crimson sun- 
shine falls across his forehead revealing an expression 
of profound grief. 

In a roller-chair near the left front of the stage sits Mrs. 
Chandler — a loquacious old lady of seventy some years; 
her hair is not grey however, although her head shakes 
continually and her cheeks are withered and wrinkled. 
She is also zvrapped in a blanket, but nevertheless makes 
frequent use of the palm-leaf fan she holds in her bony 
hand. Her nurse, Miss Stafford, sits before her, knit- 
ting. 

There are several invalids leaning against the railing, 
watching the changing colors of the sky. In the center, 
gazing pensively into the very heart of the sunset, with 
no one very close to him on either side, stands Karl Lin- 
denfels. This is the first view we have had of him 
standing. He is not so tall as Harbison Caldwell al- 
though his emaciated flesh and flabby muscles still cling 
to a framework which at one time must have held up a 
sturdy well-developed body; his crutches are leaning 
against the railing beside him. He wears a brown vel- 
vet jacket, light flannel trousers and a pair of comfort- 
able slippers; he is bare-headed, his blonde hair tousled 
by the breeze. The mask of dissipation has for the 
greater part disappeared from his face, and there is a 
pathetic, somewhat ethereal, look about his sunken eyes.) 

MRS. CHANDLER — (in a high-pitched wavering voice) 
Can you tell me what's wrong with this young woman in the 
roller-chair across from me, Miss Stafford? 

MISS STAFFORD— A maternity case, Mrs. Chandler; 
her child was born here at the hospital — a perfectly wonder- 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 101 

ful baby boy. 

MRS. CHANDLER — And the young man in uniform is 
the father I reckon ? 

MISS STAFFORD— Yes ; and he is going to sail for 
France tomorrow ; he has come to bid his wife and baby 
farewell. 

MRS. CHANDLER— Oh, it's so sad; isn't it? It almost 
breaks my poor old 'heart to look in that direction. My grand- 
son, George, came to the hospital this morning to say good- 
bye to me ; but his parting didn't seem nearly so pathetic to 
me as this one — and yet I had always hoped to see him a 
father like that boy over there in the uniform. George is a 
great big strong fellow with brown cheeks and curly reddish 
hair — and he was clean as a whistle, Miss Stafford. He had 
never tasted liquor and he was almost afraid to look at a 
girl, but he had the biggest, kindest heart that ever beat in 
a human bosom. I have often thought what a fine husband 
he would make for some dear soul of a girl, and I've often 
thought what wonderful healthy, happy children he might 
help to bring into the world and what a service he would be 
performing for his country by doing so. It had been the 
one thing I had looked forward to all my life : to see that boy 
married and to feel the pride in being the great grandmother 
to a future president of the United States — perhaps. Each 
year I had watched for the sweet passion to develop in his 
strong clean body; I've been lying in wait to see some dear 
girl come along who would just win dear George's big, kind 
heart all of a sudden. But I've been disappointed. The 
passion came all right, but it wasn't the sweet passion I had 
hoped for; it was a mad desire to wipe Germany off the 
face of the earth. I would never have thought it in George 
who has always been so quiet and gentle. But he began to 
read the patriotic stuff in the daily papers, and it seemed the 
devil took hold of him and lured him into one of those train- 
ing camps. He stayed there for several months, and when 
he came home, there was whiskey on his breath — and I don't 
doubt in the least but that he has been initiated into other 



102 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

low habits as well ; you know the kind of women who loiter 
about such places. When he kissed me good-bye it wasn't 
the pure, pleasing kiss he used to give me, and the look in 
his eyes was so nasty and bloody. That's why his parting 
didn't seem pathetic to me. May the good Lord forgive me 
for saying it, but for some reason or other I was not so 
sorry to see him going : for it didn't seem to be George at all 
who was leaving me, but a type of man without whom the 
world would be a whole lot better off. Isn't it terrible how 
young men are transformed and ruined by liquor and prosti- 
tutes and war? 

MISS STAFFORD— Indeed it is, Mrs. Chandler. 

(The young soldier wheels his wife through the double 
doors.) 

MRS. CHANDLER — (twisting her neck to follow him 
with her eyes) That young husband's face looks familiar, 
but I suppose it's because I can't see so very well. Think of 
this fine strong fellow just at the height of his manhood ! 
Within a month his splendid body may be blown to atoms. 
And it is only the physically fit — only the best of human 
flesh and bone that War demands for cannon-fodder. When 
I think of this young husband and of thousands of other 
boys who are going to give up their promising young lives, 
while I — a worthless old granny — am left here at home to 
live, it makes me furious ; it really does, Miss Stafford. I 
am not so self-depreciative as to believe that I have never 
done a service for my country — for I have borne and raised 
eight children ; but I do candidly admit that my days of 
productiveness and usefulness are past. I've out-lived my 
husband by twenty years, and the only thing I'm fit for is to 
die. But it seems nothing will or can kill me. I've had every 
ill under the sun, and I've been in three railway accidents and 
two runaways, and now, at the age of seventy-three, my 
body was actually cut to pieces under the surgeon's knife — 
and yet I live! I believe if I were to be struck by one of 
those German torpedoes, I'd still survive. But these fine 
young men who would be of such great use to the country 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 103 

in the future — they are going to France to be shot down 
like dogs. And they will probably die — die without aid per- 
haps — while I — a worthless old granny — I continue to live 
surrounded by nurses and physicians whose constant and 
excessive attention is enough to kill an ordinary being. Why 
do they keep on experimenting, trying to preserve me like 
one of those curious and rare but perfectly worthless 
skeletons one sees in a museum? Why don't they turn all 
their attention to our boys over there and let my light go 
out? 

(The invalids are now leaving the roof one by one to re- 
turn to their rooms; only a few remain.) 

MISS STAFFORD— The American boys who are 
wounded in France will be well taken care of, Mrs. Chandler. 

MRS. CHANDLER— Oh I know our Red Cross is a 
very wonderful and reliable organization : I just gave them 
five-hundred dollars myself. 

MISS STAFFORD— I realize that the public have con- 
tributed very generously and that a large financial endow- 
ment is essential ; but it will be from the hundreds of nurses 
and doctors who have offered actual service that our boys 
will get the direct attention they deserve. 

MRS. CHANDLER— Yes, my dear, but modern warfare 
is so treacherous and so far-reaching that even those who are 
sent to relieve the wounded are often wounded more seri- 
ously themselves. 

MISS STAFFORD— It's true: one can never tell just 
when or where something is going to explode even before 
one reaches the field of battle. Think of that terrible acci- 
dent that happened a week or so ago — that accident that oc- 
curred during gun practice on one of the ships carrying our 
soldiers to France. 

MRS. CHANDLER— Yes ; I do recall something about 
that. Just what was it, Miss Stafford? 

MISS STAFFORD — Two very close friends of mine 
sailed on that same ship : Constance Wakefield, a trained 
nurse who practiced here at the hospital up to a few days 



104 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

before she sailed — and Doctor Caldwell who was interned 
here. 

(By this time all of the invalids except Lin den f els have 
left the roof. He remains motionless in his former posi- 
tion, gazing into the sunset the colors of which are 
gradually beginning to fade.) 

MRS. CHANDLER— Oh yes, I remember Doctor Cald- 
well. He used to drop into my room almost every evening 
to tell me a story and then bid me good night. Bless his 
sweet soul! He's just the picture of my John at the time 
we were on our honeymoon. But you aren't going to tell 
me the dear fellow was shot? 

MISS STAFFORD— No; he wasn't shot, but— Miss 
Wakefield was — instantly killed. 

MRS. CHANDLER— (dropping her fan) Instantly 
killed ! 

MISS STAFFORD — (placing her handkerchief to her 
eyes) Yes — and to think it was their — their wedding trip ! 

MRS. CHANDLER— Their wedding trip ! Oh, how pa- 
thetic! The poor dear Doctor. To think of him losing his 
wife when he was just beginning to live ! After all, I sup- 
pose it's a greater sorrow for a man to lose his bride than 
for a young mother to lose her husband. You see a young 
mother has a future in her child and knows how to make a 
home for herself, and her former passion for her husband 
has relaxed and changed in part into maternal affection ; — but 
it's different with a man : God never intended that he should 
live alone. Poor Doctor Caldwell ! I wonder if he had a 
religion that will console and save him and help him to be- 
lieve that they shall meet again hereafter. How my heart 
aches for him ! If only the good Lord had taken me in her 
stead — me — a worthless old granny — who has outlived her 
husband by twenty years. If only those twenty years could 
have been added to Mrs. Caldwell's life ! To think how 
happy he made my lonely old soul by coming to my room 
each evening to bid me good night ! To think that I who 
would have been willing to give my life to make him happy 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 105 

am unable <to speak a single word of cheer to relieve him in 
his present sorrow and loneliness ! 

MISS STAFFORD — You are trembling, Dearie; are you 
cold? (She rises.) 

MRS. CHANDLER— I believe I am. Wait till I take 
out my thermometer and see. (She opens the front of her 
dressing-sack to get at the little thermometer she wears 
about her neck; she holds it up very close to her eyes.) Yes ; 
I am very cold. The air is getting rather damp and chilly. 
You had better take me down to my room. (She glances 
about the roof.) I notice that all the younger invalids have 
turned in for the night — all but The Insane Composer. 
(The nurse wheels her off the stage as she continues to talk.) 
Do you suppose 'he's been disappointed in love, Miss Staf- 
ford? Or is he brooding over some plot to blow up the 
hospital? German blood, you know. 

(Lindenfels is left alone, unaware of the fact that all the 
others have departed. He continues to gaze blankly at 
the last streak of dying color in the west. The light from 
the lamps in the covered part of the roof shines notice- 
ably through the doors and windows. The electric signs 
on the distant buildings now light up, one by one. 
Marianne Le Grand appears in the doorway. She wears 
high white shoes and a long purple cape shimmering 
with spangles; her large black hat is trimmed with 
brightly colored flowers. She carries a hand-bag and a 
large cardboard box. She places the box on one of the 
chairs.) 
MARIANNE— (softly) Mon cher Karl. 
(There is no response.) 

MARIANNE — (coming a step closer) Mon cher Karl. 
(He neither responds nor moves.) 

MARIANNE — (louder and still closer) Mon cher Karl ! 
(He turns his eyes_ away from the sky and stares at her 

strangely.) 
MARIANNE — It is Marianne; she has once more come 
to her petit genie. (He continues to stare at her in silence ; 



106 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

she sits down on one of the benches.) So you are still here 
at zee hospital dreaming, dreaming, dreaming . . 

KARL — (remaining motionless) Ant you haff come again 
to tishturp my tream — 'my tream off happiness ? 

MARIANNE — Yes, I have come again, and I will con- 
tinue to come again and again and again and again until mon 
oher Karl stop dreaming. Do you know what zey call you — 
zee nurses — zee docteurs — zee patients — everybody? Zey 
call you Zee Insane Composer. 

KARL — Vat to I care vat t'ey call me ! (He slowly turns 
his head away and again gazes across the tree-tops.) 

MARIANNE — But you must care. You must prove zat 
you have greater mind zan anyone of zem : you must come 
back and finish zee opera : "Zee Great Reliever." I say you 
must finish it, for Marianne will keep on coming until you 
do. 

KARL — You vill not let me rest? 

MARIANNE— Non, non. 

KARL — You vill not let me try — 'try vit all my heart ant 
soul — to pecome a goot man again? 

MARIANNE — Non, non; you must give up zis struggle 
to become good man. It is not naturelle for mon cher Karl 
to become good man ; it would not be good for zee world 
for mon cher Karl to become good man. Mon cher Karl, 
good man? Ha ha ha . . . Zat sound so funny — so 
silly. 

KARL — It sounts funny to a vicket person ; not to a 
goot vone. 

MARIANNE — (tormentingly) Not to Mademoiselle 
Wakefield— eh? _ 

KARL — (with a shudder) Ton't preat' her name; your 
lips vill contaminate it. 

MARIANNE — Ah, mon cher Karl ; you still zink Made- 
moiselle was an angel. (She opens her handbag and produces 
a folded paper.) Zen you never saw zis which she left in 
your room zee day she went away ; she had not zee courage 
to say it while you were wake ; she had to write it on zee 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 107 

back of zee docteur's chart while you sleep. I have saved it 
for mon cher Karl so he can see what kind of woman Made- 
moiselle Wakefield was. (She rises, walks to him, holding 
out the paper ; he does not turn about, but reaches for the 
paper slowly and, without unfolding it, places it in the] 
pocket of his jacket.) Ah well, if it make you feel bad to 
read it now ; keep it till sometime again when I am not near. 
It is all you have to remember her ; she left you nozing more. 
(She returns to the bench.) If only she had give you her 
latest photographic But zat is now impossible : Poor Made- 
moiselle ! it is too bad zat nasty gun blow off her pretty face 
and her soft white hand. 

(He sinks down on his knees, groaning and clinging' to 
the railing.) 

MARIANNE — (rushing to him) Ah, mon cher Karl is 
still weak from zee operation. Come let Marianne help you 
to a chair. 

KARL — (In a loud whisper) Ton't touch me ! Ton't 
touch me ! (With the aid of the railing, he gets on his feet 
again and, using his crutches, he manages to drag himself to 
the bench on which he sinks with a heavy sigh.) 

MARIANNE — (standing behind the bench and stroking 
his hair) Why you not want Marianne to touch you ? Made- 
moiselle Wakefield no longer have nice soft hand. She must 
have been zinking of mon cher Karl wiz her hand over her 
eyes, when zee nasty gun shoot zee zought out of her head. 
You must let Marianne pat you now zat Mademoiselle is 
gone forever. 

KARL — V'y iss she gone for-efer? 

MARIANNE — Why, mon cher Karl ; because she is dead 
— L very much dead. 

KARL — T'ere may pe a life after te'th — a lite vkout sin. 

MARIANNE — (coming from behind the bench and sit- 
ting in one of the chairs facing him) A life wizout sin! 
Jamais. Sin is each day become more and more necessaire 
for life. What is zee biggest sin? It is to kill. But killing 
is zee grand occupation — zee occupation comme il faut of 



108 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

today. Zey no longer say : "Zou shalt not kill." Non ; cela 
est tres passe. Zee Christianity is out of date. In Europe 
zey are blowing up all zee churches and cazedrals, and in 
America zey are hanging flags on zee pulpits and putting 
zee musket on zee shoulder of Christ telling him to shoot — 
and kill. Non, mon cher Karl ; killing is no longer sin ; and 
when zee big sin is no longer sin, zen zee little sins is no sins 
too. Zee soldier who go to France to kill, he say: "Before 
I commit zee big sin for zee good of my country I will com- 
mit lots of little sins for zee joy of myself, for after I die, 
I have no more plasir wiz my body." So he take any pretty 
girl he find anywhere and sin a little. 

KARL — How can you say such t'ings, Marianne? 

MARIANNE — Because I am not afraid to speak zee 
truth, and you, who are artist and know it should not be 
afraid to portray it. Zee man who has not sinned has not 
lived; zee man who stops sinning is dead. 

KARL — You are fery wrong, Marianne. True life iss 
moral ant t'at iss t'e life I vish to portray vit my art from 
now on. It iss a new kint of musik I vish to write — t'e kint 
I hat alvays intentet to write — t'e kint of musik for vich 
I left my home ant my country — t'e kint off musik I hat suc- 
ceetet in writing until I met you — until you ruin't my genius 
maype for-efer. (With his elbows resting on his knees, he 
buries his face in his hands, and sobs.) 

MARIANNE — (triumphantly) Forever, mon cher Karl? 

KARL — Yes, maype for-efer. I sit townshtairs in my 
room efery morning trying to write pigger, petter musik for 
a right cause. I try; I try. Oh, how I try! Putt your 
influence hass spoil't eferyt'ing for me. It vou't haff peen 
tifferent if she hat liff't — if she hat liff't. 

MARIANNE — (rising and standing behind the bench 
again.) But she is gone forever, and now zere is only one 
kind of music zat mon cher Karl can write. It is zee opera 
which Marianne will sing. You will finish zat opera, mon 
cher Karl ; you will finish it for me. (She throws her arms 
about his neck almost strangling him.) 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 109 

KARL — (gasping for breath, unlocking her arms and 
throwing them back) No, no, no ! How often must I tell 
you I vill nefer nefer finish t'at opera? 

MARIANNE — You will never finish it as long as you 
stay here cooped up in zis house of gloom and dispair wiz 
so many cripples and invalids. You must come to ozer roof- 
gardens where zee orchestre play zee musique which mon 
cher Karl has already composed. 

KARL — It iss on t'is roof vere her shpirit linkers; it vas 
here vere she use't to come ant rest after her tay's vork. 

MARIANNE — Perhaps she will come tonight. Perhaps 
zat is why you have been waiting here — for anozer Made- 
moiselle Wakefield. (She removes her hat, placing it on one 
of the chairs; she takes a nurse's cap from her handbag and 
pins it to her hair ; she opens the cardboard box and removes 
a large bouquet of pink roses, holding them in her arms.) 

KARL — (knowing nothing of what is taking place be- 
hind him) No, Marianne ; t'ere iss only vone Miss Vakefielt ; 
t'ere can nefer pe anot'er. She iss t'e only vone I vill efer 
luff. 

MARIANNE — Ah, mon cher Karl, so say Riccardo in 
mon cher Karl's opera when Rosalie find out he is wicked 
and drown herself in zee ocean to make Riccardo lonely and 
sad. But when Hortense, zee wicked woman, come to him 
dressed like Rosalie and singing zee big song: "Sin, Sin, 
Sin — is zee greatest reliever to man ? Sin, Sin, Sin . . . 

(She throws off her long purple cape and stands before 
him in a nurse's uniform.) 

KARL — (temporarily bewildered) Miss Vakefielt ! It iss 
your shpirit I see ! (He rises suddenly and then sinks down 
on to the bench again.) No ; it iss an illusion ; it iss Marianne. 

MARIANNE — Ah, mon petit genie, it has always been 
an illusion. It has always been Marianne from the begin- 
ning. (She sits beside him.) It was Marianne who found 
you on zee floor of zee studio ; it was Marianne who sent you 
to zee hospital ; at zee hospital zey wounded you — wounded 
you very carefully, and when you come out of zee aneszetic 



110 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

you see zee pink roses which Marianne send you ; it was 
Marianne who nursed mon cher Karl, but when he see her all 
in white, he call her Miss Wakefield and zink she is an angel ; 
but it was always Marianne. As Miss Wakefield she not 
excite mon cher Karl but nurse him tenderly like an angel 
until his wound is healed again, but now his body is strong 
and his manhood is come back, and Miss Wakefield again 
become Marianne, and Marianne now want Karl to love 
her as before. (She sinks back on his thighs, placing one arm 
about his neck and holding the roses up to his nose.) She 
want him to love her to his body's content, and she want him 
to finish zee opera which his love for her inspire. 

KARL — (taking the roses in his arms) Marianne you 
are using your magic on me again ; you are trying to confuse 
me — to get yourself ant Miss Vakefielt so interminkelt in 
my mint t'at I von't pe aple to tistinquish petween goot ant 
eefil ; you are trying to run t'ern toget'er so I can not tell 
t'em apart. 

MARIANNE — Ah, mon cher Karl, zere is no distinction. 
Love itself is sin, and we shall love eachozer. You must 
come wiz me over zere. (She points to the electric-light 
signs on the horizon.) Over zere where zee lights are gleam- 
ing ! On zose roof gardens zey are playing mon cher Karl's 
musique, and zerefore everybody is gay and happy; on zis 
roof garden mon cher Karl's musique has been forgot, and 
zerefore all zee peoples are sick and gloomy. You will come 
away from here wiz Marianne. (She rises and approaches 
the railing.) See, down zere — oh ! it make me dizzy to look 
— down zere is Marianne's limousine standing near zee side- 
walk. In it we will go togezer away from zis lonely place, 
and we will drink absinthe and smoke cigarette and enjoy 
all ze plasir zee body of man and woman can afford; for 
once zee body is gone, zere will be no more plasir. Zee life 
of zee spirit? Ah, mon cher Karl, zat is an illusion. 

KARL — (all the while fondling and smelling the roses) 
Toctor Calitvell t 'ought so too ; I vonder if he shtill t'inks so. 

MARIANNE — Of course he does; he is sensible, im- 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 111 

moral man, mon cher Karl. 

KARL — (angrily) He iss not immoral, Marianne. 

MARIANNE — He had immoral relations wiz Made- 
moiselle Wakefield. 

KARL — You lie Marianne ; he vas marrie't to her. 

MARIANNE — Married! And mon cher Karl love mar- 
ried woman? I tell you all love is immoral and sin. 

KARL — I luff her shpirit only. 

MARIANNE — But her spirit also belong to Monsieur 
le docteur. 

KARL — Toctor Caltvell vill not eefen haff her shpirit; 
he hass giffen her shpirit to me. (He reaches into his jacket- 
pocket and produces a card with a ribbon fastened to it.) 
T'e pink roses fatet ant viltet, putt after Miss Vakefielt vent 
avay t'ey peeame fresher ant more fragrant t'an pefore, ant 
I fount t'is cart tite to t'em. I can not see to reat it now, 
putt I know vat iss on it : "T'ese roses — a sympol off t'e 
shpirit off my vife (Constance Vakefielt) — t'ese roses to 
Karl Lindenfels from Harpison Caltvell." I t'ought t'e roses 
hat fatet ant viltet again, Marianne, putt I see t'ey are 
fresher t'an ever. (He ties the card to the new bunch of 
roses.) It iss queer how her shpirit only seems to fate ant 
vilt ant t'en come pack to me alvays finer t'an pefore ; it 
shows t'at t'e shpirit nef er ties. Nef er ! 

MARIANNE — So mon cher Karl have zee spirit of 
Constance to love and zee body of Marianne — a spiritual 
and a material wife like Maeterlinck! But zink of poor 
Monsieur le docteur ! he not even have a spirit to put his 
arm around. Zink how Monsieur le docteur wish he could 
patch up his wife's body like he patch up mon cher Karl's 
body after zee surgeon kill him a little, so Monsieur le doc- 
teur could enjoy it again like mon cher Karl can now en- 
joy his wiz Marianne — enjoy zee great relief and zee great 
plasir which inspire zee great art. Yes ; Marianne save 
mon cher Karl's body and wiz it she will save his art. She 
will come to him again and again and again and again until 
she succeed separating his body and his art from his insane 



112 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

spirit which belong to Madame Caldwell. 

KARL — You vill come again and again and again until 
you succeet in separating my shpirit from my poty? 

MARIANNE— Oui, mon cher Karl. 

KARL — You neet not come again, Marianne; you vill 
succeet tonight. 

MARIANNE— Tonight ! (She cuddles up to him on the 
bench.) Ah, I knew I would win you back, mon cher Karl, 
even zough you did hit poor Marianne in zee eye wiz a plum. 
Nasty boy. 

KARL — Yes, Marianne; you naff peen fictorious. My 
poty iss yours ; it vill come town to your limousine on t'e 
skevalk, and you can haul it avay ant fill it vit vine ant haff 
all t'e pleasure you vish vit it, ant out off its orkans you can 
grint your operas py t'e score. 

MARIANNE — (triumphantly) And your crazy insane 
spirit — you will leave it up here on the roof garden forever 
wiz zee pink roses? 

KARL — Yes; I shall leaf it here on t'e roof garten for- 
efer — for-efer — wiz t'e shpirit of Constance. 

MARIANNE — (rising quickly and putting on her cape) 
Ah mon cher Karl ! mon petit genie ! 

KARL — Putt you must leaf me here a few moments 
alone, Marianne, pefore my poty comes town to your limou- 
sine. 

MARIANNE — Oui, mon cher Karl; I will leave you 
here alone so your body can say good-bye to zee angel who 
will fly down from zee sky to kiss you wiz her cool wings 
and take your spirit away wiz hers forever — forever. Oh, 
how glad I will be when your body is rid of zat crazy spirit ! 
But mon cher Karl must stay not too long wiz zee angel ? 

KARL — No, Marianne; only a few moments. 

MARIANNE — And if mon cher Karl stay longer zan zat, 
I will tell Henri to blow zee horn of zee limousine to 
remind him. Zree times he will blow. Zree times — loud and 
long! 

KARL — I vill pe listening, Marianne, ant my poty vill 



THE GREAT RELIEVER 113 

come town. I promise you — promise you fait' fully : my poty 
vill come town to your limousine on t'e sitevalk ass soon ass 
you plow your horn. 

MARIANNE — Ah, to zink zat you will no longer be 
Zee Insane Composer! (She takes up her handbag.) Re- 
member, mon cher Karl : zree times — loud and long ! I will 
pack your clothes ; Henri will carry zem to zee car. 
KARL — T'ree times ; lout ant long. 
(In her excitement she rushes off without her hat, still 

wearing the nurse's cap on her head. 
After a short and peaceful silence, during which Karl 
continues to smell the fragrant roses, the clock in the 
church-steeple strikes the hour: nine resounding clangs 
with seemingly long intervals between them. 
After the last stroke a drunken Janitor, with rather un- 
certain steps, appears in the double doorway with a 
sprinkling can. He waters the plants in the boxes in 
front of the windows all the while whistling "Coming 
through the Rye/' stopping here and there at the most 
unexpected places in the melody and then, after a hic- 
cough, continuing from the place where he left off. 
He pulls up the awnings. Karl is unaware of the 
Janitor's presence, and the Janitor does not see Karl 
since the bench is turned away from him. However, in 
glancing quickly about to make sure that no one is going 
to be locked out, the Janitor does spy Marianne's hat; 
he examines it very closely, and then, taking up the 
watering can, he showers copiously the artificial flowers 
with which the hat is trimmed and, satisfied, returns the 
hat to the chair. Then he closes the double doors, bolt- 
ing them noisily from within. Next he closes the win- 
dows and latches them noisily. Then he extinguishes 
the inside lights one by one, after which his whistling 
grows fainter and fainter. 
The roof is now very dark. The color in the west ha$ 
faded away entirely, but a large star has appeared, seem- 
ingly at the very pinnacle of the spire on the church- 



114 THE GREAT RELIEVER 

steeple. The star is growing brighter and brighter. 
Karl places the roses on the bench and removes the 
folded paper from his pocket. He unfolds it and holds 
it up to his eyes; the star emits a shaft of diverging rays 
of light which illumine the paper.) 
KARL — (reading aloud and slowly) I vant — I vant to 
tell you — t'at — t'at you naff chainch't t'e course off my life — 
chainch't it from eefil to goot — ant I vish you to know t'at I 
luff you — luff you for toing it — luff you vit all my soul. 
(He lifts the paper to his lips, then folds it and places it 
in the pocket of his jacket next to his heart. He picks 
up the roses again, taking a long deep breath of their 
fragrance and then placing them on the bench. As he 
looks up, he sees the star for the first time ; he lifts his 
arms to it as its light falls about him. 
From the street far below, the horn of a limousine sounds 
three times: the first horn is rather loud; the second one, 
much softer; the third one, scarcely audible. 
He rises from the bench and, using his crutches, walks to 
the railing. Leaning his crutches against the railing, he 
crawls through it slowly and carefully, the star all the 
while lighting the way. Standing on the outside of the 
roof with his back against the railing, he throws one of 
the crutches: it seems to float silently through the air 
and keeps on floating, for one does not hear it strike the 
earth. He throws the second crutch; there is likewise 
no sound. The stained glass window in the church- 
tower becomes illuminated from within, and strains of 
music — a paraphrase of Schumann's "Warum?" — come 
softly from the far-away organ. With outstretched arms 
and with lighted face lifted ever upward to the guiding 
star, Karl Lindenfels slowly approaches the edge of the 
roof, the curtain descending and screening the picture.) 

The End 



Literary, 

Musical 

and 

Scientific 

WORKS 

by 

George 
Frederick 

GUNDELFINGER 

published by 

THE NEW FRATERNITY 

Sewickley, 
Pennsylvania 



The Gbeat Reliever 

A Play in Four Acts 

Price $1.35 postpaid 



The Ice Lens 

A Four-act Play 

on Academic Immoralities 

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Ten Years at Yale 

A Series of Papers 

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The New Fraternity 

A Novel of University Life 

Price $1.75 postpaid 



Football and Warfare 

A Pamphlet 

Price 10c postpaid 



Prince Albert's Velvet Tuxedo 

A Pamphlet on Tobacco 

Price 10c postpaid 



The Passing of Brother Greek 

A Pamphlet on College Fraternities 

Price 10c postpaid 



(in preparation) 

Improvisation 

A Volume of Verse 



LONELY 

A Song 

(with piano accompaniment) 

Price 50c postpaid 



When Jerry Plays the Flute 

A Melody for the Pianoforte 

Price 50c postpaid 



I Love to be Loved by a Baby 

A Song 

(with piano accompaniment) 

Price 35c postpaid 



(in preparation) 

Tom-Tom-Tay 

A Ballad 

(ivith piano accompaniment) 



(in preparation) 

Three Soprano Songs 

Wonderful Glorious Spring 

I Think of You 

All the World is in Love 

(with piano accompaniments) 



(in preparation) 

Berceuse 

for the pianoforte 



(in preparation) 

Du Bist Wie Eine Blume 

A precious old gem 

in a new musical setting 

(■with piano accompaniment) 



(in preparation) 
Songs of Pierrot 

and 

Danse Pierrette 

especially composed for 

The Sewickley Valley Cot Club Production 

of Oliphant Down's Phantasy 

"The Maker of Dreams" 



(in preparation) 

The Adventures of Jack 

A Song Comedy 

in Two Acts and Three Scenes 

and 22 Musical Numbers 



On the Geometry of Line Elements 

in the peane with reference 

to Osculating Circles 

A Pamphlet 

reprinted from 

The American Journal of Mathematics 

Price 10c postpaid 



(in preparation) 

A Textbook in Algebra 

A Textbook in Trigonometry 

Textbook in Analytic Geometry 

A Textbook in Calculus 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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